


Good Times Gonna Come

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Sports, Baristas, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Canon Universe, Detectives, Drunk Clarke, Drunk Dialing, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Memory Loss, Soldier Bellamy, The Voice AU, rival teams au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of tumblr prompts.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>#18</b>
</p><p> </p><p>"Ma'am," the voice continues, serious and sober, "I'm calling today to inform you about your recent transgression against the Marine Corps, the Department of Defense, and the very Constitution of the United States."</p><p>Her breath stutters in her throat.</p><p>"Um," she squeaks out, "my <i>what</i>?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>prompt: don't give a marine a hickey, even if he's your husband</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rival teams au

**Author's Note:**

> title like the Aqualung song, only not sad and emo lmao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#1: high school au, where they're (sports/club/etc) teammates OR part of rival groups (boys/girls team, band nerd/jock, etc)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [onemanbellarmy](http://onemanbellarmy.tumblr.com) (tumblr) / [bellamythology](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorVegeta13/pseuds/bellamythology) (ao3), as part of my [500-follower/birthday celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/149226254798)!

 

 

 

 

 

“This is stupid,” Raven announces.

 

Octavia barely spares her a glance. “You think everything is stupid.”

 

“This is _especially_ stupid,” Raven argues, kicking her heels against the leg of the table she’s currently perched on. “Don’t you think this is _especially_ stupid?”

 

Harper raises a brow. “How exactly is testing cupcake recipes for our bake sale stupid?”

 

“That’s not the stupid part,” Raven says. “The fact that we’re _having_ a bake sale is stupid.”

 

Zoe laughs. “Do you actually _want_ to have to share equipment with the boys? Don’t you want our own balls?”

 

“That’s just it, though,” Raven says, and the fact that she doesn’t rise to Zoe’s pointedly dangled bait shows the depth of her irritation. “We’re trying to raise money so we don’t _have_ to work with the boys. How the fuck is a _joint bake sale_ helping us achieve that?!”

 

Maya smiles. “It’s not our fault,” she says mildly, measuring out neat tablespoons of sugar. “It’s school policy.”

 

“Yeah, unless you wanna wait till next month so we can have our own fundraiser,” Octavia says, stirring a large bowl of cake batter.

 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Whatever. If Murphy tries to talk to me, I’m punching him in the face.”

 

"Is Reyes threatening to hit Murphy again?"

 

Everyone glances up at the sound of Bellamy's voice, its owner trailing after Clarke as she enters the room.

 

"Always," Clarke says with a scoff. "I'd say he deserves it, too."

 

Bellamy shrugs. "Most likely. But there's probably some kind of clause in the captaincy code that requires me to at least pretend to defend his honour, so—" he looks at a scowling Raven, "hey. Quit it."

 

"No," Raven shoots back, before looking at Clarke. "What's _he_ doing here?"

 

" _Some_ one has no faith in our baking skills," the blonde replies, rolling her eyes at Bellamy's cheeky grin. "I told him it's mighty ballsy of him, considering no one on _this_ team has ever given anyone food poisoning."

 

Bellamy glances over at Octavia with a raised brow. "Debatable, princess."

 

Octavia points a batter-coated spoon at him. "I was _nine_. Doesn't count."

 

"Also, she didn't manage to incapacitate _sixteen_ _people_ within the span of _two hour_ s," Clarke points out, crossing her arms over her front. "Your player, your responsibility."

 

Bellamy holds his hands up. "Hey, I told you long ago. I completely and unequivocally absolve responsibility for anything and everything Jordan does off the pitch."

 

Clarke shakes her head, lips pursed. "Yeah, tell that to Harper."

 

Behind her, Harper winces, one hand rubbing absently over her middle in memory.

 

Bellamy glances at the other girl. "Well, to be fair, he says it was probably the weed that gave everyone problems. Not the actual brownie part of it."

 

"Good to know," Clarke says shortly, picking up a cupcake from the small tray sitting on the counter. "Here's your _sample_ , Blake. Goodbye."

 

He eyes the treat, amusement flashing across his face. "What, not gonna describe the dish to me before I taste?"

 

She levels a flat look at him. "Generic cake, served in miniature proportion and topped with some overly sweet icing or other." She raises a brow, waving the cupcake in a half-hearted circle. " _Bon appétit_."

 

He moves a step closer and leans in, a wolfish smirk curving across his lips. "You gonna feed it to me, princess?"

 

Clarke's cheeks instantly colour with a distinct pink hue, and before he can blink, she shoves the cupcake at his chest. He scrambles to catch it, only just barely avoiding ending up with icing smeared all over his shirt.

 

"You wish, Blake," she snaps, striding past him and her staring teammates for the door. "Hurry up, we still have accounts to settle. I'm not spending a second longer with you than I absolutely have to."

 

Bellamy shrugs towards her gaping teammates, completely unrepentant, and makes a show of taking a big bite out of the cupcake as he ambles unhurriedly towards the exit.

 

As soon as he steps out of the room, he's yanked sharply to the side and pressed into the nearest set of lockers. He barely manages to swallow his mouthful of cake before a set of warm lips are hard on his, fingers curling into the dark curls on the back of his head as a small body presses up flush along his.

 

He's already grinning by the time they break apart, though it's more goofy than triumphant.

 

"Asshole," Clarke mutters, her blunt nails scraping along his scalp. She pauses, her tongue darting out to run along her bottom lip. “Huh. That’s… actually not too sweet.”

 

“Yes it is,” he says, pulling her closer with a wide grin. “Here, I think you need one more taste.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come celebrate with me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


	2. The Voice au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#2: ‘we’re rival contestants on a reality show and the producers told us to pretend to be warring exes for ratings so now we keep inventing crazier things the other did while we were dating’ au**  
>   
> 
>    
>  **featuring Bellamy and Clarke as _The Voice_ contestants matched up for a battle**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for lushatrocity ([tumblr](http://lushatrocity.tumblr.com)/[ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lushatrocity)), as part of my [500-follower/birthday celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/149226254798)!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bellamy’s pretty sure that falling out of love isn’t supposed to be this fun.

 

But then again, he’s never fallen out of love with Clarke Griffin before.

 

"So," he says. "How does this go?"

 

Her icy gaze snaps to his. "What?"

 

He bristles at her sharp tone. "This," he repeats curtly, gesturing between them. "What are we gonna say? What's our _story_?"

 

She stares at him. He can't quite tell if she's incredulous or offended.

 

Probably both.

 

"We _have_ no story," she says shortly, already turning away. "Just follow my lead in front of the cameras. And _don't_ fuck up," she adds as she strides off.

 

Bellamy sighs, resigned.

 

He’s always found it supremely funny whenever contestants on reality shows say stuff like _"I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to **win** "_.

 

But from the minute he’d laid eyes on her, he’d instantly known that Clarke Griffin is most definitely _not_ here to make friends. She's intense, and she’s focused. Above all, she’s here for one thing only — and that's to win.

 

Truth be told, he can’t say he’s surprised that they’re getting this directive from the producers. Since the competition’s start, he and Clarke have been butting heads nonstop, on camera and off.

 

It makes sense for the show to want to capitalise on their tension for some dramatic exchanges.

 

 

It's a few more minutes before they get called to standby, the makeup artist frantically dusting a last touch of powder over his face before scurrying off, right as the director calls ‘action’.

 

"Before we start, I should ask," Roan says once they're gathered around the piano. Bellamy notes his barely perceptible emphasis on the word _'should'_ with wry amusement. "What does this song mean to you, as artists?"

 

_'As artists.'_ The man is practically begging for them not to pull some kind of _Jersey Shore_ shit.

 

"It's about heartbreak,” Clarke says, almost nonchalantly.

 

Bellamy whips his head round to look at her incredulously. For some reason, he _really_ hadn’t expected her to say anything first.

 

Roan seems intrigued by her answer. “Is it, now?”

 

“No, it’s not,” Bellamy hears himself blurt. He immediately quashes the flush rising up his neck with a vaguely irritated shake of his head. “It’s about _finding_ love.”

 

“I didn’t say it’s _not_ about finding love,” Clarke snaps, one hand propped on her hip. “That doesn’t mean it’s not about heartbreak either.”

 

“How can someone be heartbroken about _finding love_?” Bellamy demands, folding his arms defiantly.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Well you _obviously_ haven’t paid any attention to the song, because that’s _exactly_ what the writers were describing — utter despair over how _scary_ falling in love can be.”

 

She huffs a bitter laugh, but there’s something off in the sound. _She’s exaggerating,_ he realises.

 

“Then again,” she continues, “paying attention to complex emotions was never really your strong suit, seeing as I was the one who had to ask you out first.”

 

Bellamy scoffs, planting his feet wide. “Yeah, you’re all about _emotions_ ,” he retorts, the gears in his head whirring at top speed. “That why you got me a Banana Republic gift card for our anniversary?”

 

Her jaw drops, but the flash in her typically arctic eyes clues him in — she’s buying a couple extra seconds to think. “Yeah, because that’s so much worse than the puppy you got me for my birthday.”

 

He blinks, momentarily thrown off-rhythm. “It’s… not?”

 

She sighs theatrically. “You gave your _allergic_ girlfriend a _puppy_ for her _birthday_. Real sweet, Blake.”

 

He stares at her incredulously. “I thought you were allergic to _cats_.”

 

She pauses.

 

The corners of her lips twitch almost imperceptibly.

 

“I _am_ ,” she says. “Cats and dogs, _both_. I _told_ you that, the day we watched _The Notebook._ Remember? You cried.” Her eyes flash playfully. “Twice.”

 

He’s suddenly finding it really hard not to smile. “At least I didn’t cry in _Transformers_. Who the hell cries in _Transformers_?”

 

She tosses her head, but he instantly realises that it’s to hide her own mounting amusement. “It’s an _extremely_ inspirational movie.”

 

“Naturally,” Roan says smoothly, through gritted teeth. “Let’s talk about influences.”

 

And so it goes for the next hour or so — Clarke jumps to contradict him, he rushes to argue with her, and Roan tries half-heartedly to turn the discussion back to the song. Whenever they’re not actually singing, they take turns coming up with increasingly ridiculous things to accuse each other of, each building on the other’s newest idea until their supposed romance appears to be made up entirely of tears, outrageous misunderstandings, and, for some reason, a stranger ending up with their head shaved.

 

When the director calls a wrap on their day, Roan shoots them an exasperated but grudgingly approving look before walking away.

 

Bellamy shakes his head, finally cracking his first proper smile. “‘Allergic to dogs _and_ cats.’”

 

Clarke grins, and he’s suddenly struck by the fact that the whole time the show’s been going on, he’s never seen her smile like this.

 

“How else was I supposed to make you look like the more terrible person by comparison?” she retorts with a small smile. “Especially after that Banana Republic shit. By the way, if you end up winning this whole goddamn thing, that’s the only congratulatory present you’re getting from me.”

 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Bellamy asks, nearly lightheaded with how _enjoyable_ his conversation with _Clarke Griffin_ is turning out to be. “Because I gotta tell you… I kind of like Banana Republic.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I _know_ , that’s why I got you the damn gift card.”

 

He finally laughs, marvelling inwardly at how _easily_ it comes.

 

“Anyway, I was going to go rehearse now.” He clears his throat. “If you… you know. Wanted to do that together. Or something.”

 

She looks at him, one brow lifted — and for one split second, he’s cursing himself for thinking anything’s changed.

 

“Well,” she says after a long pause, the corners of her mouth turned upwards, “I usually like to rehearse my _duets_ alone, but I guess I’ll make an exception for my _duet partner_.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come celebrate with me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


	3. finding a puppy on the side of the road au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#3: finding a puppy on the side of the road au**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [mythicalbellamy](http://mythicalbellamy.tumblr.com) on tumblr, as part of my [500-follower/birthday celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/149226254798)!

 

 

 

 

 

“Look, I’m not saying Dr. Shumway was checking you out… but Dr. Shumway was checking you out.”

 

Bellamy laughs, as Clarke waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

 

“I can’t believe you’re _still_ on this Shumway-is-gay theory,” he says as her arm slips into his.

 

“It’s not a theory,” she says stubbornly, leaning into him. “It’s a well-evidenced hunch.”

 

He raises a brow at her. “I’m sure his wife would agree.”

 

“Spoilsport,” Clarke complains, grinning and flushed pink from the numerous glasses of champagne downed throughout the gala.

 

By the time Bellamy pulls them out of the parking lot, she’s already got her bare feet up on the dashboard, heels forgotten under her seat.

 

She reaches out to fiddle with the radio, humming some tune or other under her breath as she turns volume down low.

 

“What did Kane say?” she says suddenly.

 

Bellamy flushes at the way her head turns sharply to look at him. “What?”

 

“Kane,” she repeats, loud enough that he knows she’s definitely tipsy. “I saw him talking to you. When I was talking to my mother. What’d he want?”

 

Bellamy checks the rearview mirror, mostly for something to do instead of looking at her. “Nothing. Just said hi. Asked how I was, how work’s going.”

 

_Asked if we’re dating,_ he adds silently.

 

“Oh,” Clarke says, frowning. “At first I thought maybe my mother sent him to, like, interrogate you or something.”

 

_She did_. _Because she thinks we’re dating._

 

“Oh,” he says instead, as vaguely as he can.

 

“She kept talking about you,” Clarke says, dropping her hand and slumping back down in her seat. “She kept asking all these _questions_. She said I—"

 

Suddenly, Clarke springs upright in her seat.

 

“Stop the car,” she commands. “ _Stop the car!_ ”

 

But he’s already slowing down and pulling over. “What?” he asks, throwing the gear in park as she whips her seatbelt off and wrenches open the door. “Do you need to throw up, or— _Clarke_!”

 

He doesn’t even have time to get out of the car before she’s suddenly getting back in it. Jeez, but she’s fast when she’s drunk.

 

She folds her legs back into the car, the long silky material of her gown slipping and sliding over them as she moves.

 

“Okay,” she informs him, shutting the door primly. “You can go now.”

 

He doesn’t move. “Clarke.”

 

“Bellamy.”

 

“Why is there a puppy in your lap.”

 

Her hands curl defensively over the animal, squinting and pawing around tentatively in her lap. “He’s _lost_.”

 

Bellamy sighs. “Clarke, you’re not bringing home a puppy.”

 

“Why not,” she demands, stubborn.

 

“Because you already _have_ a door gift from the gala,” he says patiently. “Put it back.”

 

She hunches further over the puppy as it nuzzles into her palm. “I _can’t_. He’s  _lost_ , Bell.”

 

“He’s a stray, Clarke,” Bellamy says firmly. “You’re not bringing him into your apartment. He could be carrying all sorts of diseases.”

 

“He’s _harmless_ ,” Clarke half-whines, fingers stroking gently over the quietly yapping puppy. “Look, he _likes_ me.”

 

Bellamy starts to argue, and then pauses. She’s still petting the puppy affectionately, humming soothingly to it. Her hair is falling well out of her fancy updo, and she seems completely unbothered by the dirty animal curled up on her lap and griming up her sleek dress.

 

“Alright,” he says, restarting the car. “Just remember this in the morning — I was the voice of reason here.”

 

“I know,” she says happily. “That’s why I love you, Bell.”

 

He’s never gone into cardiac arrest before, but he supposes this is pretty much as close as it gets to experiencing one without actually having one.

 

“What did you say?” he croaks, after a long moment.

 

No response.

 

He glances over in trepidation—

 

—only to see Clarke fast asleep, slumped sideways on the seat with her arms still curled protectively around the dozing puppy.

 

He can’t help but smile.

 

“Yeah, princess,” he says, reaching out to stroke his fingers lightly over the tiny dog. “Yeah. Okay.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come celebrate with me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


	4. things you said on the phone at 4 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#4: 'things you said on the phone at 4 am'**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [carrieeve](http://carrieeve.tumblr.com) as part of my [500-follower/birthday celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/149226254798)!

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Clarke? _Clarke_!”

 

She winces. Her phone’s always turned to the loudest possible volume. It usually seems like a good idea so she doesn’t miss important calls or messages, but not when it’s four in the fucking morning and she has to be up in two hours.

 

“I’m here, Bellamy,” she says wearily into the phone once she’s turned the volume down several notches. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

 

“I’m with _Murphy_ , Clarke,” he says, still a little too loud and very, _very_ slurred. “ _John Murphy_. Do you know—”

 

“Yes, Bellamy,” she says patiently. “You’re with Murphy, got it. What’s the last thing you remember drinking?”

 

“Who says I’m _drinking_ ,” he practically shouts, but it comes out more like ‘ _whooss-ssim-DRANKinnn’_.

 

“Cool,” she says, letting her eyes fall shut. “Listen, hand the phone to Murphy, will you?”

 

“ _No!_ ” Bellamy yells, making her jerk unexpectedly. “ _No_ ,” he repeats, a little softer. “ _Nooo…_ ”

 

She cracks open an eye. “Okay. Uh, can I ask why?”

 

“He wants to tell you something,” he garbles, his low voice lilting more than usual. “He— he wants to tell you _everything_.”

 

Clarke frowns. Murphy never spills secrets, _ever_. He’s one of those rare few who somehow get even _more_ clammed up when imbibed with alcohol. “Tell me what?”

 

“Tell you,” Bellamy mumbles, interrupting himself with a giant sneeze. Clarke smiles at the sound. When he’s at a certain level of drunk, he usually gets these sneezing fits every ten minutes. They’re big, bombastic sneezes, too — his entire body seizes up, and his face scrunches up tightly. It’s adorable. 

 

He sniffles a little, returning to the phone. “T-tell you— are you _listening_?”

 

“I’m here, Bellamy,” she says, one brow arched in the darkness of her bedroom. “Tell me what?”

 

“I said, he wants to _tell_ you,” Bellamy repeats louder, his slurring not at all improved by the raised volume, “that I think that you are the bestest face in the world.”

 

She pauses, both eyes now fully open. “Best what?”

 

“ _Bestest_ ,” he corrects, sounding almost annoyed. “ _Bestest_ face. In the _world,_ princess. Are you _listening_ —”

 

“I’m listening, Bellamy.” She can almost hear her heart pounding in the stark silence of her bedroom. “Is— is that all Murphy wants to tell me?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he scoffs, like she’s said something supremely dumb. “He wants—“ he hiccups, “—to _tell_ you, also, that I want to hugs your— your heart.”

 

Clarke sits up in bed. “My _heart_?”

 

“You— you got the big heart, princess,” Bellamy rambles on. “Biggest— _biggest,_ and I, I want— _shut up,_ Murphy!”

 

His tone drops then, and Clarke knows that despite the actual volume of his voice not changing, he _thinks_ he’s whispering.

 

“Murphy says it’s ’cause you got great boobs,” he says urgently. “But it’s _not_ , it’s _not_ , okay? I mean—” he hiccups again, “—you got the bestest chestest that I ever—”

 

“Okay,” Clarke says, unable to stop from smiling. “I think I get the message, Bellamy. Hey, hand the phone to Murphy for me, okay?”

 

“No,” Bellamy whines, dragging out the syllable until it’s somehow more ’n’ than ‘o’. “He wants to _tell_ you _every_ —”

 

“Everything, I know, Bellamy, I know,” she says soothingly. “I just want to talk to Murphy for a bit, okay? Just a second.”

 

He grunts nonsensically, but there’s a rustling, and then—

 

“It’s not my fault,” Murphy announces with no preamble.

 

“We’ll talk about _that_ another time,” Clarke says firmly. “Get him _home_ , Murphy. Help him out of there, get a cab, walk him upstairs. _Now_.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Murphy drawls.

 

“All the way to the door,” she adds sternly. “I mean it. Text me a picture when he’s in bed.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Murphy says, his voice flickering a little in a way that makes Clarke think he’s already moving off the barstool. “You know what? From now on, you guys are only allowed to consume alcohol in each other’s presence. Maybe then we’ll all finally be spared from both your drunken rants on each other’s faces and chests. Oh, yeah,” he says before Clarke can protest. “Don’t even bother — Raven told me.”

 

“Goodnight, Murphy,” Clarke says, blushing hotly as she shifts awkwardly in her bed. “Remember to send me a photo.”

 

“Before or after I get his shirt off?” Murphy asks.

 

She hangs up instantly.

 

Her bed is suddenly far too warm.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang on [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


	5. co-captains au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#5: grudging co-captains of a co-ed softball team; college au**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [onemanbellarmy](http://onemanbellarmy.tumblr.com/) / [bellamythology](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorVegeta13/pseuds/bellamythology), as part of my [1k-follower celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/156462904119)!

 

 

 

 

 

“What the _fuck_ was that, Griffin?”

 

Clarke drops her glove onto the bench and swipes up her water bottle, popping the lid off as she whirls around.

 

“What the fuck was _what_ ,” she retorts, glaring up from underneath the rim of her cap.

 

Bellamy tosses aside his mask before roughly unsnapping the buckles of his dusty chest protector, a grunt of pure frustration escaping from his mouth. “You weren’t on your base. I _told_ you to be ready.”

 

“And I _told_ you not to try it,” she shoots back, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth after a few rushed gulps of water. “Emori was going for the bunt, I _saw_ her.”

 

“And Aden’s too much of a chickenshit to go for a steal, like I _said_ ,” Bellamy gripes, somehow managing to get his gear hung up on the hook without taking his narrowed eyes off Clarke.

 

"Clarke's up," Monty announces idly. Neither Bellamy nor Clarke pay him any attention.

 

“It was two out,” she points out, turning her back on Bellamy to set the bottle down. “Throwing out the bunt was a safer bet.”

 

“We had a _plan_ ,” he snaps, yanking off his shin guards.

 

“Plans _change_ ,” she counters, whipping her batting gloves off the bench.

 

At the other end of the dugout, Raven collapses onto the bench, pinching at the front of her shirt to fan it against her perspiring skin. “Who says sports isn’t fun,” she comments to no one.

 

“You better get yourself on base,” Bellamy growls at Clarke as she passes him by.

 

“You better get me home,” she retorts, her favourite blue-streaked bat already in hand as she strides out of the dugout and into the batter’s circle.

 

"Oh, good," Miller says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "At least _someone_ 's stepping up to bat."

 

On the first pitch that comes her way, Clarke strikes a low grounder that zips right past the first baseman just along the foul line, forcing the right fielder just far enough out that she makes it to second base easily.

 

"Well," Jasper remarks joyfully, elbows propped against the dugout fence, "she's on base."

 

Beside him, Harper snorts around a mouthful of Gatorade. "Not for much longer."

 

Bellamy steps up to the plate and holds up a hand to the pitcher as he digs his feet into the dirt, sunlight glinting off his solid black bat.

 

Eighty-four feet across the field, Clarke rolls her eyes under her helmet. _What a fucking drama queen._

 

Bellamy slugs the incoming fastball all the way out to deep left field with a satisfying _thwack_ , the ball slicing a clean, level arc all the way past the scrambling outfielders.

 

Clarke makes it to the home plate with plenty of time to spare, slowly jogging off the diamond as she watches Bellamy charge right past second base, the outfielders still reaching frantically for the ball as it rolls out of their reach.

 

He spares a single glance behind him as he rounds third, and doesn’t look back as he races towards home, one foot landing on the plate with no more significance than any of the other steps he’s taken.

 

She rolls her eyes as he pulls up in front of her, his eyes flashing triumphantly even as he pants heavily.

 

“What a fucking drama queen,” she says, the others already flooding out of the dugout shouting excited cheers and thumping both of them on the back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Join the softball team, they said," Bellamy says later, cracking two beer cans open. "It'll be fun, they said."

 

"Shut up," Clarke tells him easily, grabbing a freshly opened beer off him as she passes him by.

 

"Your co-captain will be cooperative and pleasant to work with, they said."

 

Clarke jabs a whiteboard marker in his direction. "First of all, no one's ever said that. _Ever._ Second of all, I'm _sorry_ if you don't take much pleasure in _winning._ You know, like we just did? Today?"

 

"We could've prevented that run that came in," Bellamy grumbles through swigs of beer. "From that centre fielder, remember?"

 

She rolls her eyes, turning to set her beer down on his desk. "Yeah, I can't believe we won fourteen to two when it could've been fourteen to one. We should all probably just give up now. To avoid further embarrassment and all."

 

"Winning isn't about the score," he argues heatedly, one hand on his hip. "It's about—"

 

"—the game you play," Clarke finishes, her eyes sparkling with amusement despite her bored tone. "Yes, thank you, _captain._ Are you done?"

 

He scowls, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. "All right, fine. What's our plan for the next game?"

 

Clarke grins, pulling off the cap on the marker with a flourish. "Right," she says, turning to the whiteboard tacked up on his wall, already covered in diagrams and player directions. "So here's what I'm thinking..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Lemme guess," Miller says the next day, when Bellamy shows up to their morning lecture, two minutes late and already yawning behind a hand. "You and Clarke stayed up half the night talking strategy. _Again._ "

 

"Shut up and send me today's slides," Bellamy grunts, folding himself into a seat beside Miller.

 

"This is insane," Miller continues, shaking his head. "Will you two just fuckin' _kiss_ already? Playing in this goddamn tournament is stressful enough without having to watch you two run this eternal drill of love hotbox."

 

Bellamy clears his throat. "So we were thinking about getting you to pitch a few more rise balls for the next game—"

 

"Slides are sent," Miller says quickly, sitting up in his chair. "Yep, all done."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They finally do kiss three weeks later.

 

It's not exactly the most poetic kiss, or the prettiest. They're both sweaty and grimy, each probably wearing about half the dirt off the diamond on their skin and clothes.

 

But when Bellamy leaps onto home plate to score their winning run and clinch them the championship, the entire team doesn't even bother waiting for the umpire to call 'safe' before spilling out of the dugout.

 

It takes another few seconds for Clarke to fight her way through Jasper and Monty's double hug, but when she finally does, she plants her hands firmly on each side of Bellamy's face, and firmly pulls him down, her lips crashing into his.  

 

Bellamy blinks dazedly when she pulls back — but the cheers, smug _ooh's_ and _aah's_ , and the enthusiastic jostling of their surrounding teammates quickly jolts him back to alertness.

 

"First kiss in the wake of a hard-won victory," he says, his hands finding the curve of her waist, his mouth curving with a smirk that ends up blooming into a full-blown grin. "Who's the drama queen now?"

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, but the grin she's wearing on her face is just as wide as his.

 

"Shut up, _captain,_ " she orders, already yanking him closer for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr's](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com) where the party's at


	6. "i'm your lock screen?!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#6 "I'm your lock screen?!" "You weren't supposed to see that"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Caitlyn](http://sassamyblake.tumblr.com), as part of my [1k-follower celebration!](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/156462904119)

 

 

 

 

 

The first time he notices it, they're on the couch, watching TV.

 

Clarke's in the kitchen getting them fresh beers, when a familiar 'ding' sounds from her phone. Bellamy knows it's Clarke's phone, because his phone is pretty much always switched to silent mode.

 

(Loud alert sounds make him anxious, okay? Sue him.)

 

"Clarke! Text!" he calls over his shoulder, one hand automatically reaching out to grab her phone from where it's lying face down on the other end of the couch.

 

To his utter surprise, Clarke bursts into the living room like a blonde hurricane, bounding from the kitchen to the couch within a single leap to snatch up the phone.

 

"Got it, thanks," she says, evidently breathless from her haste.

 

His brow arches upward as he takes in her harried appearance. "You… okay?"

 

"Yep, fine," she says, the phone held up to her nose. "It's just Harper. Work stuff. The usual."

 

He nods slowly, eyeing her up and down. "... Did you get the beers?"

 

Her head snaps up, and she shoves the phone into her pocket. "Oh, yeah. Uh. Be right back."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second time he notices it, they're at the bar with the gang.

 

"All right, Blake," Clarke says with a roll of her eyes. "You got lucky. I'll give you that."

 

"Unbelievable," Bellamy scoffs good-naturedly, preening a little as he racks up for another round of pool. "You're probably the only person on the _planet_ who would call call winning twice in a row _'luck'._ "

 

She shrugs unconcernedly, swiping up her half-empty beer bottle with her free hand. "Well, maybe it's a little bit of skill, too. Just, like, twenty percent. And maybe, I don't know, fifteen percent concentrated power of will."

 

"Zero percent pleasure," Bellamy says, gesturing for her to break. "For you, that is. When you lose for a third time."

 

"You're terrible at this whole referencing songs thing, by the way," she informs him as she moves around him to get to the other end of the table.

 

"And you're terrible at pool," he retorts easily without any heat. At the sound of a familiar 'ding', he automatically glances sideways to where their phones are sitting on the high table beside them.

 

And then he steps back in surprise when Clarke practically throws herself in front of him to get to her phone.

 

"I got it," she says quickly, all but shielding the entire table from him with her body.

 

"Okay," he says, one brow raised. "Something urgent?"

 

She hunches over her phone for a few brief moments, thumbs flicking over the screen.

 

"Nope, nothing," she says, her voice oddly strained. "Just… work. As always."

 

He watches as she finishes off with a clearly forced laugh, setting the phone back down on the table — face down this time, the screen hidden from view.

 

She loses the game, even more efficiently than the last two.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next week, he suddenly can't stop noticing how vigilantly Clarke keeps her phone to herself.

 

She always keeps it on her side of the couch when they watch TV, instead of leaving it on the coffee table like he does.

 

She makes consistent, deliberate efforts to place it face down whenever she has to let go of it.

 

And, she never, _ever_ lets Bellamy so much as _peek_ at the screen. Not even to check the damn _time._

 

It's fucking _weird._ Clarke's always been a pretty private person, but she's never been touchy about her _stuff._ At some point, he starts to wonder if she's having some kind of secret affair with Harper. Or someone else from work.

 

And then one day, fate comes a-knocking.

 

 

* * *

 

  

"This has _got_ to be too much basil," he says, shaking his head at the small mountain of chopped herbs sitting on the kitchen counter before raising his voice. "Clarke? Are you sure it's this much basil?"

 

A muffled response chimes in from down the hall, but it's too distant to make sense of.

 

"Is that a no?" he calls, cautiously prodding at the raw slabs of meat in front of him.

 

Another response sounds from Clarke's room, somehow even more muffled than the one before.

 

Bellamy sighs, glancing at Clarke's phone sitting on the kitchen table. She'd been reading a recipe off the screen for the last twenty minutes, but now that she'd disappeared into her room to look for something or other, he's suspended in a temporary limbo.

 

He glances towards the hall. No movement.

 

Blowing out a breath, Bellamy reaches for the phone. _It's JUST to check the recipe,_ he tells himself as his hand closes around the device. _It's completely irrational to be nervous about checking a goddamn RECIPE._

 

And that's when Clarke chooses to reappear in the kitchen. Because, _of course._

 

"Okay, forget it, I couldn't find the—" She freezes in the threshold, her eyes rounding with panic. "What are you—"

 

He holds up her phone, his jaw hanging slack. "I'm your lock screen?!"

 

"What," Clarke snaps automatically, her face contorting with some strange hybrid of fear and embarrassment. "Wha— _no._ "

 

He stares at her, her phone still held up in his hand. "'No', as in, this _isn't_ my face on your lock screen right now?"

 

Clarke blinks, and then lunges toward him, snatching the phone out of his grasp.

 

"You weren't supposed to see that," she grumbles.

 

He thinks it might be intended as irritable. Instead, it comes off as flustered.

 

"Clarke," he says, forcing himself to refrain from smiling.

 

"It's just a lock screen, okay?" she snipes, stuffing the phone into the pocket of her shorts before stalking past him towards the basil mountain on the counter. "Don't make a _thing_ of it."

 

"Clarke," he repeats, planting his hands on his hips as he turns to face her.

 

"Everybody has weird lock screens sometimes, Bellamy," she continues, grabbing a pinch of basil and forcefully sprinkling it all over the raw steaks. (More like _throwing_ it at the steaks, he notes.) "Doesn't necessarily _mean_ —"

 

" _Clarke._ "

 

" _What_ ," she snaps, whirling around sharply.

 

He waits, his phone held in his outstretched hand.

 

"Wow," she finally manages after a long beat. "Uh. I mean. _Wow._ " She tilts her head, as if considering one of her many paintings. "That's… actually not a terrible photo of me."

 

"Yes," he says dryly, despite the disconcertingly warm flush spreading across his cheeks. "I'm aware."

 

A brief silence stretches between them.

 

"So," Clarke says, her chin jutting upwards in that way it always does when she's trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

 

Bellamy nods, fully conscious of the way his ears are _burning._ "So."

 

She crosses her arms over her middle, one smug brow quirked. "Why am I your lock screen?"

 

He _almost_ doesn't recover in time to return her smirk with one of his own.

 

"Well," he says, tucking his phone in his back pocket before taking a step towards her, "I gotta say — it's because you're _so_ damn good at pool."

 

He doesn't mind the punch she manages to land on his shoulder right before he kisses her.

 

It's a little because the punch is weak as hell. (He's _seen_ her punch for real. Her left hook is mean as _fuck._ )

 

It's mostly because of the way she's already grinning breathlessly, eyes bright and cheeks pink.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr's](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com) where the party's at


	7. drunken confession au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On second thought, it was probably a really fucking stupid idea to play Never Have I Ever with just two people.
> 
> But, if Bellamy's being completely honest, he kind of just wants to see Clarke Griffin _drunk._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **#7: modern au, friends to lovers with drunken confession**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Camille](http://cupcakeblake.tumblr.com), as part of my [1k follower celebration](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com/post/156462904119)!

 

 

 

 

On second thought, it was probably a really fucking stupid idea to play Never Have I Ever with just two people.

 

Then again, it's not like it was precisely _his_ idea to begin with. It's probably really fucking stupid that he'd _agreed_ to it, at least.

 

But, if Bellamy's being completely honest, he kind of just wants to see Clarke Griffin _drunk._

 

Not because he wants to make some kind of creepy move on her while she's wasted, or anything. (He's well aware that he's hopeless and pathetic when it comes to her, but he's not a _creep._ )

 

No, it's mostly just to see if Clarke Griffin is even physically capable of _getting_ drunk.

 

In any case, Never Have I Ever is probably _still_ a stupid idea. There's only two of them playing, so they each just go back and forth naming things they know for a _fact_ that the other's done. Ultimately, it's really just forty-five minutes of them sitting across from each other on Clarke's couch, taking turns to down shots from her 'secret' Grey Goose stash.

 

"What time is it," Bellamy manages to ask after the tenth or eleventh shot. _Twelfth?_ To be completely honest, he'd lost count after half choking during their seventh round, when his shot went down the wrong way and he had to spend three full minutes coughing the vodka out of his windpipe while Clarke rubbed large circles into his back with one hand, snickering the entire time behind the other.

 

Really, he's just proud that the words don't come out as slurred as he'd expected them to.

 

"Just after nine," Clarke says with a small hiccup. She grins, loose and lazy thanks to the alcohol thrumming through her system. "What's up, Blake? Admitting defeat?"

 

Jesus _Christ._ It's _nine P.M._ on a Friday, and he's already two seconds away from keeling over.

 

He gulps down on a hiccup of his own, reaching unsteadily for the bottle. "You _wish._ Let's go. Next Round. Never Have I Never." He pauses, handing her her refilled shot glass. "Uh. Never Ever You… no. Ever You Never." His forehead scrunches in concentration. "Ever."

 

Clarke sniggers, Grey Goose sloshing dangerously in her glass as she tips forward. "Never have I ever," she says slowly, pitching over sideways and into the back of the couch. " _Hmm._ " She snaps her fingers — or, at the very least, makes a definite attempt at doing so. "Never have I ever seen Miller naked!"

 

He groans, droplets of vodka catapulting from the rim of his glass as he points it at her. "That's not fair, _his swim trunks were loose_ —"

 

Clarke throws her head back in laughter, before shaking it insistently. "Drink! Drink! Drink!"

 

With a grumbled curse, Bellamy brings the shot to his lips.

 

Clarke cheers, actually _cheers_ when he downs it in a single gulp.

 

He manages to get her with _"Never have I ever kneed a stranger in the balls"_ , making sure to congratulate her on the job well done with the pervy flasher she'd run into a couple months back.

 

She raises her empty glass triumphantly once she's polished off the shot. "Watch him flash his dented nuts _now_ ," she says proudly, holding the glass out for a refill.

 

"I'd rather not," Bellamy says, covering her hand with his to hold it steady while he pours her more vodka. "I'd rather you didn't have to again, either."

 

She dissolves into a fit of giggles, lurching forward so her forehead presses into his shoulder. The slight jolt makes him spill onto her couch, but he honestly couldn't care less.

 

"Okay, Bell-my," she snickers into the sleeve of his T-shirt. "No more dented nuts."

 

"This is _not_ a conversation I thought I'd be having tonight," he comments to no one, grinning despite himself as she leans back from him with a wide, whimsical smile.

 

So. Clarke Griffin _can_ get drunk. His grin widens by the barest fraction of an inch, more giddy than genuinely victorious.

 

"My turn!" Clarke announces, thrusting her glass in a completely random direction, spilling half the shot on his jeans in the process.

 

She taps theatrically at her chin with one finger. "Let's see. Never have I ever..."

 

"Nothing about _Murphy_ naked, please," he says with a grimace. "Nothing about _anyone_ naked, _please._ "

 

She laughs, but it comes off as more hiccup than actual laugh. A spark flashes suddenly in her eyes, and she points at him with her blessedly free hand.

 

"Got it!" she says, sounding happier than he can remember hearing her in _weeks._ "Never have I ever kissed you."

 

Just like that, all the air seems to rush right out of the room.

 

The smile fades from his face, his brows furrowing sharply. "What?"

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, still grinning dopily as she pokes at his shoulder. "Never," she says, enunciating ridiculously exaggeratedly, "have I _ever_ — _kissed_ — _you._ "

 

Silence descends like a heavy blanket, thick and stifling.

 

"Uh," Bellamy says. He stops, and clears his throat. He looks at her, and blinks.

 

And then he opens his mouth.

 

"Drink."

 

Clarke blinks at him, her eyes glassy. "What?"

 

He gestures towards the half a shot of vodka left in her glass. "Drink."

 

At her confused frown, he takes a deep breath.

 

"I've never done that either," he explains slowly. "Kissed me — kissed myself, I mean. Which means you lose the round. So… you have to drink."

 

Clarke's brows knit together, like she's displeased by the notion. "Oh." She looks down at the shot glass in her hand, and then back up at him, still frowning hazily. "But I don't _want_ to drink."

 

He shrugs, his lips already curving with a smile before he can really think about it. "Rules are rules, princess. You lose, so you gotta drink."

 

She huffs an exasperated sigh, twisting her legs about so she can rise to her knees, one hand throwing out to brace on his shoulder for balance.

 

He laughs when she wobbles precariously, his hand automatically wrapping around her elbow to steady her. "Are you seriously _leaving_? You're such a sore—"

 

And then her lips are on his, warm and soft, moving with a pressure that _definitely_ feels a lot more deliberate and intentional than anyone with over ten shots of vodka in their body has any right to be.

 

She pulls back after a few moments, already beaming at him.

 

"There," she announces, her blue eyes clear even as she sways into him. " _Now_ I don't have to drink."

 

And with that, she politely hands him her half full shot glass, and promptly collapses into his lap, curling up into a ball with her cheek pressed against his chest.  

 

Slowly, he lifts a hand to her hair, stroking dazedly.

 

Shaking his head, he looks down at her fondly as warmth spreads throughout his chest, a forest catching with the gentlest of fires.

 

"Well," he tells her as she begins to snore softly into his shirt, "now I know why you wanted to play Never Have I Ever."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "if there is a [tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com), i guess i'll see you there"


	8. "always doing weird shit at ridiculous hours of the night"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, it's a _gargantuan_ effort for Clarke to keep from thinking about how _good_ Bellamy Blake looks just like this — plain T-shirt and sweatpants, his dark curls even more tousled than usual from the last hour or so spent sprawled out on the couch.
> 
> It's _especially_ ridiculous considering _this is how he's looked every single night for the last six months_.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **#8: "I always see you doing weird shit at ridiculous hours of the night and it makes me feel better because I do weird shit in the middle of the night too"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [spacecleavage](http://spacecleavage.tumblr.com), as part of my 1k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

 

"Don't you have a _room,_ Griffin?"

 

Clarke flicks a lump of charcoal in his general direction. Or, at least, what she _hopes_ is his general direction. Whatever, she can't really be bothered to look up.

 

"Don't _you_ have a room, Blake?" she retorts, already returning her attention to the sketchpad in front of her.

 

"I'm the RA," Bellamy reminds her, his hands spread in an imitation of grandness. "I basically own the entire floor."

 

She snorts, turning the pad a few degrees sideways. "You might wanna double check the manual on that."

 

"I _wrote_ the manual on that," he says. He pauses. "No, seriously. I actually got permission from Kane to rewrite the thing last year. Do you have any idea how fucking _outdated_ the old one was? There were rules in there on the communal _VCR._ "

 

She sniggers, brushing a stray lock of blonde out of her eyes. "You're literally the only person in the _world_ who would even give a shit."

 

"And you're the only person in the world who would choose the floor over a perfectly good couch," he says, gesturing pointedly to the side of the couch currently not occupied by him.

 

"Plenty of people prefer sitting on the floor," she says primly, keeping her eyes on her sketchpad.

 

"Yeah, plenty of people prefer _back problems_ to a proper seat that's _actually comfortable_ —"

 

She sighs, gathering up her sketchpad and coal before pushing up off the floor.

 

"There," she deadpans, dropping down onto the couch beside him. "You happy now?"

 

He grins. "Ecstatic, Griffin."

 

All of a sudden, it's a _gargantuan_ effort for Clarke to keep from thinking about how _good_ Bellamy Blake looks just like this — plain T-shirt and sweatpants, his dark curls even more tousled than usual from the last hour or so spent sprawled out on the couch.

 

It's _especially_ ridiculous considering _this is how he's looked every single night for the last six months_ , ever since they'd started running into each other and subsequently (unintentionally) hanging out in the common room of their floor at all hours of the night.

 

She rolls her eyes, wrinkling her nose at the book in his hands. "Are you seriously _still_ doing that Sudoku thing?"

 

He looks at the book, and back at her. "I like Sudoku."

 

"Yeah, but at _two_ in the _morning_?" she says, disbelieving.

 

He shrugs. "Keeps my creative problem solving skills sharp."

 

"You sound like a motivational speaker."

 

"You can pay by cash or credit."

 

She shakes her head, biting back on a smile. " _Seriously._ Why are you constantly staying up till, like, the weirdest fucking hours to _do_ all this shit?"

 

He blinks at her, looking vaguely bemused. "All what shit?"

 

She points at the worn puzzle book in his hands, one brow raised. "Exhibit A."

 

He sits up properly on the couch, eyes glinting with interest. "Yeah, well, why are _you_ constantly staying up till the weirdest fucking hours to do all of _your_ weird shit?"

 

Her jaw drops. "What weird shit?!"

 

He levels a flat look at her. "Really? You're _really_ gonna act like you weren't out here baking cookies two days ago, at _three A.M._?"

 

She flips her hair over her shoulder. "I had a _craving._ "

 

" _And_ like you don't paint your nails in here every Thursday night at, like, one-thirty in the morning?"

 

"I like having the TV on while I do it," she says defensively. "The background noise makes me less nervous."

 

"Not to mention the fact that if this room didn't exist between the hours of twelve to four A.M., probably _none_ of your schoolwork would ever get done."

 

"Okay, all right," she says loudly, waving a dismissive hand. "Point made, okay?"

 

Bellamy settles back down into the couch, grinning triumphantly. "I think that was a sufficient introduction between the pot and the kettle."

 

"Yes," she says dryly, throwing her bare feet into his lap — more as a show of defiance than anything, really. "How dare I call you out on your inability to maintain normal sleeping habits."

 

"How dare you fail to recognise _your own_ inability to maintain normal sleeping habits," he corrects, sounding irritatingly smug as he props his puzzle book against her ankles. "You know you're going to have to fix that eventually, right? Once you graduate? You know, leave this place for the _real_ world?"

 

She shrugs, trying not to think about what the hollow pang in her chest means. "Or maybe I'll just become an RA. Move into the floor above yours. Only vacuum at three in the morning, just so you don't ever get a chance to _adopt_ some normal sleeping habits."

 

He squeezes at her calves, warm and teasing.

 

He doesn't look at her, exactly. She still manages to catch the slight tightening of his jaw.

 

She clears her throat, looking down at her sketchpad. "But, whatever. That's still a good three months away." She lifts her head, flashing a grin at him. "Looks like you'll have to put up with me till then."

 

He shrugs, the undercurrent of tension dissipating from his shoulders as he returns her grin with one of his own. "As long as I get to continue reaping the benefits of your late night baking benders, I'm sure as hell not complaining."

 

She hums. "I'm thinking brownies next week."

 

"Make it double fudge and you've got yourself a one-man clean-up crew."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm up all night (to get lucky) [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


	9. celebrating a birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We can't afford to lose focus, Raven. If we can't get this done, in just five months, none of us are going to be celebrating any more birthdays."
> 
> The mechanic looks up at Clarke. 
> 
> "Exactly why I thought you'd want to make this one special."
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **#9: Bellarke celebrating a birthday in canon**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [carrieeve](http://carrieeve.tumblr.com), as part of my 1k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

Clarke exhales, pushing back from the large table in the centre of Raven's workshop.

 

"Okay, then that's settled," she says, resisting the urge to rub at her temples to keep the oncoming migraine at bay. "We'll wait for Bellamy and the others to get back for a full report on ALIE's solar panels, and then we can work out exactly how we're going to restructure the south wing of Alpha Station."

 

Raven bends over a set of blueprints, notes and diagrams scribbled all over in red and black ink. "Where're we at on negotiations with Broadleaf? We'll need those parts from Mecha if we're gonna make those solar panels work for us."

 

Clarke holds back a sigh, setting her jaw as she considers the question. "I'll talk to Roan," she decides after a long moment. "He was optimistic about it."

 

She pauses at Raven's disbelieving glance, and rolls her eyes.

 

"Well, as optimistic as Roan _can_ be, I suppose," she amends. "Either way, you're right. We need him to come through on those negotiations. I'll leave first thing in the morning."

 

She holds up a map, brows knitted in a frown as she pores over it. "Anyway, it's about time for an update on how Kane's progressing with the Shallow Valley ambassadors, too." She leans back in her chair, still studying the map. "I think I'll stay the night. Get as much done as I can in one trip."

 

Raven's head pops up at that.

 

"You're staying the night in Polis?" she repeats, a peculiar edge to her tone. "You're staying _tomorrow_ night?"

 

Clarke glances past the map to her. "I guess so? Doesn't make sense for me to head all the way there just for Broadleaf, right?"

 

To her bemusement, Raven doesn't seem convinced.

 

She pushes up from the table so that she's standing, her face contorted with an unfamiliar expression — one that, strangely enough, makes Clarke think of Titus. It's like the mechanic sort of _wants_ to throttle Clarke, but _knows_ she can't.

 

"Bellamy and the others are getting back tomorrow."

 

Clarke nods cautiously, now slightly unsettled by Raven's seemingly staunch disapproval of her plan.

 

"Yeah, and you guys can get started on the solar panels issue," she says slowly, frowning hesitantly. "I'll come back the day after, and then we can—"

 

Raven's already shaking her head. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to come back tomorrow?" she says, her voice oddly strained. "Are you _absolutely_ sure you don't want to _be here_ tomorrow night? You know, when Bellamy gets back? _Tomorrow?_ "

 

Clarke squints at her. "Is this about me and Bellamy again? Because I _told_ you, Raven, there's no time to think about things like that when we've got—"

 

Raven sighs sharply, curt and frustrated.

 

"It's Bellamy's _birthday_ tomorrow," the mechanic blurts out, hands thrown into the air. "You fucking _idiot._ "

 

Clarke stares at her, jaw agape.

 

"Wha— no," she says, hinging her jaw shut as she shakes her head. "No, it can't be, that's not for _ages_ yet—"

 

"Yeah, well, no one can exactly blame you for losing track of time," Raven scoffs, though her tone is comfortingly free of bitterness. She shrugs, bending back down over her blueprints. "We've all been a little busy, right?"

 

Clarke blinks at her, still slightly reeling from the realisation of what day it is tomorrow.

 

"I—" she starts to say, and then stops.

 

 _God._ Why is she already feeling so _guilty?_

 

She draws a deep breath, urging her pounding heart to steady itself.

 

"We can't afford to lose focus, Raven," she says, something sinking in her chest even as she injects steel into her tone. "If we can't get this done, in just five months, none of us are going to be celebrating any more birthdays."

 

To her surprise, Raven doesn't roll her eyes, or huff impatiently, or make a smart-alecky comeback, or do _any_ of the things Raven usually does.

 

Instead, the mechanic merely looks up at Clarke, her expression starkly sombre.

 

"Exactly why I thought you'd want to make this one special," she says solemnly, before turning back to her work.

 

 

* * *

  

 

It's stupid, really.

 

They've got the literal, actual _end of the world_ knocking on their doorstep. They have neither the time nor the luxury to be thinking of something as trivial as a _birthday._

 

It _shouldn't_ be a priority, Clarke thinks fervently to herself.

 

It's _not._

 

That's _not_ why she's currently attempting to cover the nearly four-hour journey from Polis back to Arkadia in under two.

 

"Come on," she mutters to her horse, even as she urges the mare even faster with a nudge of her heel. "Come _on._ "

 

She's not even sure what _time_ it is. For all she knows, she could already be late.

 

Still, she has to _try._

 

She's never been more grateful to see Riley in her life than when he materialises at the front of camp, the gates swinging slowly shut behind her as she practically jumps off her horse.

 

"Bar," he says, taking the reins before she even has time to work up a breathless _'hello'_. "Here, I'll put her away for you. _Go._ "

 

Throwing him a grateful nod, she takes off, half striding, half jogging towards the large, hulking silhouette of Alpha Station.

 

She doesn't let herself stop long enough to wonder how Riley seems to know _exactly_ what it is she's rushing for.

 

Charging into the mostly deserted canteen, she skids to stop for a hasty scan of the tables. Sure enough, that familiar head of dark curls is right at the bar, a set of broad shoulders she knows so well hunched over the counter, next to Raven.

 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she starts towards them, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace instead of breaking into a run.

 

Mere feet from the bar, she starts to falter, suddenly unsure of herself. Should she… _announce_ herself? Tap him on the shoulder? Go in for a hug? Maybe she should've taken a minute to fix up her harried appearance. She's still struggling to catch her breath from the hard ride home, the lingering dampness of perspiration heavy and thick on her flushed skin. She doesn't even need a mirror to tell her that her hair is not only windswept beyond belief, but also a complete mess from the light showers of rain she'd run into on her journey home.

 

She's not sure whether to feel thankful when Raven's eyes slide to her, and she reaches out to nudge Bellamy's arm, nodding in Clarke's direction as she says something too low to catch from a few steps away.

 

But Bellamy's already turning towards her, his entire face lighting up with a big smile.

 

"Hey, you're back," he says, and, _wow,_ she's _really_ missed his _voice._ "Wasn't sure if you were gonna be away for the night."

 

Beside him, Raven throws Clarke one last wink, before slipping out of her seat and limping away.

 

Bellamy doesn't even _notice_ — just keeps _smiling_ at her, warm, wide and impossibly bright, like she's the only thing he's been waiting to see all day.

 

She takes a couple more steps, covering the last small stretch of distance between them.

 

"Are you kidding?" she says, her own lips already curving with a smile. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i'm thinking about now is birthday cake l m a o  
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


	10. detectives au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel like we're being kicked out of school," Clarke says as they head towards the elevator. "But for, like, getting too many A's, or something."
> 
> Bellamy rolls his eyes, and flips a snickering Miller off. "Complete with a healthy dose of getting bullied by our peers."
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **#10: detectives**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [itsbellarkeworld](http://itsbellarkeworld.tumblr.com), as part of my 1k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

"Congratulations, Griffin. You too, Blake."

 

Bellamy peels off the bulletproof vest, nodding at Captain Kane once his head springs free from the gear. "Thank you, Captain. But this was Griffin's bust. I was just her side piece."

 

Beside him, Clarke snickers, landing a light punch to his shoulder. "Couldn't have done it without my partner," she says, offering a rare grin to the captain.

 

Marcus Kane smiles at both of them. "In any case, good work to you both," he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket as it starts to ring.

 

"Thank you, sir," Bellamy says, just barely resisting the urge to nudge Clarke with his elbow, like they're a couple of fifth graders getting praised for a really good presentation.

 

Kane turns away, bringing the phone up to his ear.

 

"Take a couple days off," he calls as he walks away, head craned over his shoulder. "You've earned it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Really the only people surprised to see both Bellamy and Clarke back at work the very next day are Bellamy and Clarke themselves.

 

"You're supposed to be off," Bellamy says, disapproval colouring his tone as he watches Clarke dump her bag on her desk.

 

"So are you," she shoots back, looking over at him with a displeased frown as she works her arms out of her jacket.

 

He shrugs, pretending to click at something on his computer. "Got a ton of paperwork to catch up on."

 

She responds with a shrug of her own as she drops decisively into her seat. "Yeah, well, me too."

 

He tries not to look at her face when he returns from the break room with an extra mug of coffee, casually setting it on the edge of her desk as he passes by.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Unbelievable," Raven says when they walk into the tech lab a couple hours later. "Fucking _unbelievable._ "

 

"Thank you, Reyes," Bellamy says dryly, hands on his hips. He just barely manages to dodge the pen thrown at him.

 

"As in," Raven says loudly, pointing between him and Clarke, "it's fucking _unbelievable_ how _pathetic_ you both are."

 

Clarke's brows knit together as she folds her arms over her middle. "Sorry, maybe we're just tired out from taking down _the Wallaces,_ but, uh, what the fuck does _that_ mean?"

 

"Exactly," Raven exclaims. " _Exactly!_ You two just spent the last two months practically _living_ in the precinct because of this fuckin' case, and now that it's done, you can't even bring yourselves to take a fuckin' _day_ off from seeing each other's goddamn _faces._ "

 

"That's," Bellamy says, a lump rapidly and inexplicably forming in his throat. "Not— _what_ —"

 

Clarke shakes her head. "Are you done with the data scan or not?" she asks, her tone perfectly neutral.

 

"No, I'm _not_ done with the data scan," Raven snipes back, unplugging and plugging hard drives with all the patience of an Extreme Couponer being told their coupon's just expired. "I already _told_ you, I'd need at least _two_ days to _be_ done with the data scan, which is why Kane _told_ you to _take_ two days off in the first place, so that—"

 

Bellamy's already slowly backing out of the lab, tugging lightly on Clarke's arm so she follows along.

 

"All right," he calls as he pushes the door open, ushering Clarke out of the lab before him. "Thanks, Raven!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kane gets back from the governor's office about an hour after lunch.

 

He stops just past their desks, turning with one brow raised.

 

"I thought I told you two to take the day off," he says, sounding vaguely bemused.

 

Bellamy nods. "You did, sir," he says, a little warily.

 

Clarke clears her throat. "We just thought that, you know, what with the lull between cases, it'd be a good time catch up on—"

 

"Out." Kane's tone is stern but not unkind, a distinct gleam dancing in his warm eyes. "Both of you. _Now._ "

 

_And don't let me catch either of you in my station one minute before Monday,_ his text to both of them reads, barely two minutes later.

 

Bellamy huffs at his phone, before looking up to wave at Kane through the window of his office. The captain waves back, points at him and Clarke, and makes an actual _shooing motion_ with his hands.

 

"I feel like we're being kicked out of school," Clarke says as they gather up their stuff and head towards the elevator. "But for, like, getting too many A's, or something."

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes as they pass a snickering Miller's desk, flipping the other man off before pushing the bullpen gate open. "Complete with a healthy dose of getting bullied by our peers."

 

They pause when they get to their cars, parked side by side as always. It had originally started a stupid competition to see who could get a spot closest to the door.

 

Somewhere along the way, it had warped into a weird signalling thing, to let each other know that they'd already gotten in to work for the day.

 

Don't even ask.

 

Clarke turns towards him. Bellamy clears his throat.

 

"Well," he says, acutely aware of the uncomfortable prickling along the back of his neck. "Have a good break."

 

She nods slowly, her expression unreadable. "You too."

 

He's frantically wondering if he should offer a handshake. Would a _hug_ be too much? What gesture of farewell adequately communicates, _'hey, I respect you as a co-worker, AND also appreciate you as the person who's somehow become my favourite thing in the world sometime in the last six months without either of us even realising it'_?!

 

Clarke breaks the short silence with a small laugh, more to herself than anything.

 

"Later, Blake," she says, throwing him a smile over her shoulder as she starts towards the driver's side door of her car.

 

He remembers to respond right before she disappears into the car. "Yeah," he calls, raising a hand in another stilted wave. "Bye."

 

He spends the entire drive home repeating _'yeah. Bye'_ under his breath.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Four hours later, he's cruising into his sixth consecutive episode of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ when he hears the knock at his door.

 

He's pretty sure it's Octavia. She's the only one he knows who appears to be incapable of showing up in any fashion other than announced.

 

He's _completely_ okay with discovering that he's wrong.

 

"Clarke?" he says, too surprised to stick to their habit of using last names. "What are you doing here?"

 

She's out of her usual work blouse and pants, dressed instead in a comfortable-looking flannel and jeans. Her hair is free of its usual bun or braid, cascading gently around her face in loose waves. It's a good look on her.

 

She shrugs in response to his question.

 

"It's later," she says simply, holding up a large bag. "Also, it's my turn to choose for dinner, so — sweet and sour pork from Wong's it is!"

 

He gapes at her as she moves past him and into his apartment, barely remembering to close the door behind her.

 

She's standing in his living room, head tilted at the screen.

 

"Very meta," she comments, turning to him. She lifts the bag, one brow quirked. "What's it gonna be? Forks and plates like proper adults?" She grins, one hand on her hip. "Or wooden chopsticks and cartons, station style?"

 

He can't help but grin right back, warmth blooming in his chest.

 

"Station style," he decides, reaching out to take the bag from her. " _Definitely_ station style."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now i'm craving sweet n sour pork bYE  
> catch me [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


	11. hades/persephone (modern au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he's reborn, Bellamy's not entirely sure what to expect from this particular era.
> 
> At the very _least_ , he'd figured that being the god of hell would absolve him from mundane responsibilities like _laundry_.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **#11: modern hades/persephone**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Iphi](http://kcismyreligion.tumblr.com), as part of my 1k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

When he's reborn, Bellamy's not entirely sure what to expect from this particular era.

 

There's the technology, for one. That's always been a big thing for humanity. It's one thing he's always sort of enjoyed about the fuckers. They have all these ideas for making life easier, and easier, and _easier._ It's fuckin' great.

 

But in _this_ age?

 

Computers that barely outweigh feathers. Little tablets used to store entire libraries' worth of books. Phones that are used to do literally everything imaginable _but_ make phone calls.

 

It's _insanity,_ is what it is. Over five thousand years of civilisation, and, within a single lifetime, the very _concept_ of paper is practically rendered obsolete.

 

It's almost enough to make him miss the times where the craziest thing to happen on earth was an entire city getting turned to ash by a single eruption from a mountain of lava.  

 

At the very _least_ , he'd figured that being the god of hell would absolve him from mundane responsibilities like _laundry._

 

And then he meets Clarke Griffin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So the whites go here," she says commandingly, tossing a T-shirt onto the pile to her left. "And the darks here."

 

He blows out an exasperated breath, planting one hand on his hip. "You're already doing it. You might as well just keep going till you're done."

 

"Ha, ha," she says flatly, tugging him over by the arm before moving aside. "Your turn."

 

He sighs resignedly, reaching out to pick up a tank top. "Black." His gaze slides to her. "That's a — no, don't tell me — that's a _dark._ " He drops it on the correct pile.

 

" _Very_ good," she says dryly, patting him on the shoulder. It's about twelve times more patronising than he could ever hope to pull off.

 

He thinks it's one of the reasons why he likes her so damned much.

 

(Ha, ha. 'Damned.' Get it?)

 

 

* * *

 

  

The thing is, he's never met anyone like her before.

 

That's a borderline _stupid_ thing to say, too — especially when he's met literally _millions_ of people over _thousands_ of lifetimes.

 

But, fuck it all, it's _true._

 

For instance, in all of the time he's collectively spent on earth, no one's _ever_ figured him out to be the actual _god of hell._

 

No one… until Clarke, that is.

 

It'd been _beyond_ surreal to experience her walking up to him five minutes before their philosophy lecture was due to start, clear her throat, and announce, "So, you're Hades. Discuss."

 

He'd been stunned, to say the least. All he'd known of her then was _that argumentative but also kind-of-pretty blonde who's in a couple of classes with me._

 

"I read your essay on Dante's Inferno," is all she'd offered by way of elaboration.

 

He can't quite remember what he'd said to her in response.

 

All he does remember is that he hadn't bothered denying it. He's not sure why, come to think of it. If his sister were here, she'd probably say some shit about how he's finally tired of being _alone_ for all his lives.

 

Either way, from that day forth, he and Clarke were inseparable.

 

"I would've thought you'd at _least_ have had some kind of minor meltdown by now," he'd observed on one occasion.

 

She'd merely shrugged. "Because of the whole hell thing? Please. You're _basically_ a foreign exchange student."

 

… It was a pretty good point, he'd had to admit.

 

He'd had to pretend like he didn't get all her _The Prince and Me_ jokes for a good two weeks after that. (There're a lot of things he can deal with. Voluntarily arming Clarke Griffin with the knowledge that he's actually seen _The Prince and Me_ of his own accord is _not_ one of those things.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke kisses him two days after they move in together.

 

She rolls her eyes at his gobsmacked expression. "Look, the will-they-won't-they shtick was fun throughout college, but, for real? The longer we co-habitate, the higher we climb on the probability-of-everything-going-downhill scale."

 

She pauses, her fingers scraping absently against the back of his scalp. "Plus, I like your room better than mine, and I'd rather share than switch."

 

It takes her less than a day to move all her stuff over to his room. He spends an hour making a huge ass blueberry pie to celebrate.

 

She smirks when he takes it out of the oven, brows waggling in that cheesy way she knows drives him nuts. "Aw, man. I was half expecting pomegranate."

 

"Maybe for your birthday, then," he returns dryly, setting the pan down to cool before yanking the oven mitt off so he can pull her in for a kiss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Miller materialises in their living room for his weekly report, Clarke doesn't even _blink._

 

"I hope these are all right," she says, setting two beers down on the coffee table for them. "I gotta admit that I'm not too sure what you guys are used to drinking down there. I'd offer you some sacrificial virgin blood or something, but we're fresh out."

 

The second she disappears into their bedroom, Miller turns to him, jaw completely slack. "Holy shit."

 

Bellamy doesn't even bother trying to hide his own smile. "I know."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They keep their wedding as small as they think they can get away with.

 

It's mostly to avoid the complications of having too many people meet with Bellamy's sister and friends from hell. They're all in impeccable human disguise, of course, but, if he's telling the truth, he doesn't really trust any of them to pull off more than two minutes of normal human conversation.

 

It's also because if there's anything he and Clarke have in common, it's their mutual love for _minding their own damn business._

 

"This is the smallest wedding I've seen since my own," Octavia deadpans when she finds them during the reception, champagne flute in hand. A lot of gods hadn't agreed with her marriage to Bellamy's second-in-command, Lincoln. Octavia, in turn, hadn't agreed with their presence at her nuptials.

 

"Your wedding was the _sickest_ ," Miller instantly argues. "And not just because Luna officiated, either."

 

A light round of laughter breaks out at the mention of the goddess of disease.

 

"Speaking of," Clarke says, handing her own glass to Bellamy, "I should probably go stop Jasper from flirting badly with her sister before he ends up cursed with leprosy." She squeezes Bellamy's arm with her free hand, flashing a bright smile at Octavia and Miller. "Excuse me."

 

Bellamy doesn't miss the way his sister's eyes follow her retreating back.

 

"A thousand females on Olympus," Octavia says, her tone mildly foreboding, "and you _had_ to pick your human roommate."

 

Bellamy scoffs. "A thousand males on Olympus, and _you_ had to pick _my_ right-hand man."

 

She snorts, clinking her glass to his. "Touché."

 

"You're sure about this, boss?" Miller says, brows furrowing over his lingering smile. "She's been cool with all of this for the last few years, but… do you really think she can _live_ with it?"

 

Bellamy draws a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs before bringing his gaze up to meet both of theirs.

 

"I'm not saying we've got it all figured out," he says, measured. "All I know is that whatever happens, we _will_ figure it out. Together."

 

Silence.

 

And then Octavia sniggers.

 

Shaking her head, she punches him in the shoulder. "Cheesy as hell."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, kudos/comments are most welcome! would love to hear what you think on this one =)
> 
> if you're on tumblr, i'm [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


	12. pavlov experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know those baristas who always, without fail, drop whatever it is they're doing _just _to make good-intentioned but also largely aimless small talk with their regulars?__
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _Yeah, Bellamy's not one of those baristas._  
>   
> 
> __  
> _As far as he knows, neither is Clarke._  
>   
> 
> __  
> _Which is why it's so fucking _surprising_ when she starts chatting with Roan, _all_ the time._  
>   
> 
> __  
>   
> 
> 
> __  
>   
> 
> 
> __  
> __  
> **#12: Bellamy and Clarke do the Pavlov experiment on Roan**  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [thebonnielassofyvie](http://thebonnielassofyvie.tumblr.com), as part of my 1k follower celebration on tumblr!
> 
> (i'm sorry this took a while! it turned out twice as long as intended lmao. hope you like it!)

 

 

 

 

 

You know those baristas who always, without fail, drop whatever it is they're doing _just_ to make good-intentioned but also largely aimless small talk with their regulars?

 

Yeah, Bellamy's not one of those baristas.

 

As far as he knows, neither is Clarke.

 

Which is why it's so fucking _surprising_ when she starts chatting with Roan, _all_ the time.

 

The thing is, Clarke could have picked literally _anyone_ else. They have plenty of regulars coming in every day who seem far more approachable than Roan — or, at the very least, far less likely to turn your brain to mush with a single, well-placed glare.

 

But, no, _Roan_ is the one that Clarke smiles extra bright for, the one that gets asked by Clarke about his day, the one that gets an extra biscotti slipped in with his coffee, _on the house._

 

She even starts bringing _mints_ to work.  _Just_ so she can whip them out of her pocket and offer him one, every single morning.

 

Bellamy just doesn't get it.

 

And, well, yeah, there's also the tiny problem of his crush on Clarke.

 

So, whatever, it kind of sucks to have to stand there and pretend not to watch her borderline flirt with this hot, taciturn man who comes in every day in a different shiny, sleek suit. (Even on _Saturdays._ Jesus, what does this guy _do_?)

 

"Do you think she's doing it because she knows exactly how miserable it's making me, or because she _doesn't_ know?" he wonders one weekend over beers with Miller.

 

"I think you're making entirely too big a deal out of the fact that your co-worker talks to customers," is all Miller has to say on the subject, both eyes firmly fixed on the sports bar's widescreen TV.

 

 

* * *

  

 

It turns out that Bellamy's misery has absolutely nothing to do with it.

 

"Have you heard of Pavlov's dogs?" Clarke demands one morning, as they're preparing to open.

 

He raises a brow at her, lifting an overturned chair off a table to set it right way up on the floor. "It's _literally_ too early for this."

 

She rolls her eyes, snapping the rag she's been using to wipe down tables against his shoulder as she walks by. "I'm asking because I need your _help._ "

 

He doesn't exactly _intend_ to, but he's already smiling. "Yeah, all right, Pavlovian conditioning and all that shit. What about it?"

 

She proceeds to explain, and, honestly, he would feel like a complete idiot for being jealous — if the story behind it all wasn't batshit insane, that is.

 

"Okay, so," he says slowly, still blinking at her hazily, " _why_ Roan, then?"

 

She merely shrugs, hands busy with ripping into a fresh pack of filter papers. "I need a subject I've no emotional ties to. Someone I won't feel pity for, no matter how much I play them. He definitely seems like he's rich enough to, I don't know, buy himself a yacht if he's ever having a bad day."

 

Bellamy stares at her, having long dropped all pretenses of pretending to work. "Good reason."

 

She grins, wolfish and playful. "Just pay attention when Roan comes in later."

 

So he does, although it's a lot easier said than done when they're all slammed with trying to keep up with the morning rush. He thinks he does a pretty decent job, though.

 

He focuses extra hard when Roan pays for his order, just because that's what Clarke had told him to do.

 

"Here's your change," Clarke says cheerfully, dropping a few coins into Roan's outstretched hand. Her other hand extends out of nowhere, a small tin of Eclipse already popped open like magic. "Mint?"

 

Roan puts his hand out for her to tip one into his palm. With a low grunt that sounds a little like _"thanks"_ , he shuffles off to the collection counter, already thumbing through something on his smartphone with intense concentration.

 

The second they clock out for their mid-morning break, Clarke nudges Bellamy.

 

"Did you catch it?"

 

Bellamy raises a brow as he pours their coffees. "Catch what? There was nothing to catch."

 

She pauses in the middle of retrieving two banana walnut muffins from the display for them to roll her eyes at him. "When he paid for his shit, Bellamy. Did you see the whole thing with the mints?"

 

He follows her out from behind the counter to a small table at the far corner of the coffee shop. "Uh, yeah. You offered him a mint."

 

Clarke beams at him, like he's just said something a lot more impressive. "Exactly!"

 

He hooks his ankle around a chair leg to pull it out, setting the two coffees onto the table. "That's it? That's all you want me to do?"

 

"That's all," she confirms, settling into a chair across from him. "Easy, right?"

 

Bellamy accepts the fork she hands to him, smiling bemusedly despite himself. "Am I a bad scientist if I ask what, exactly, the point of this experiment even is?"

 

Her brows furrow. "If anything, I think that's what scientists are _supposed_ to do."

 

 

* * *

 

 

He feels vaguely stupid carrying the Eclipse tin around in his pocket, but he learns to get used to it after a few days or so.

 

He starts switching stations with Clarke every other day whenever they see Roan approach through the glass windows of the shop, so that he's the one taking orders by the time Roan gets to the counter. Roan does the slightest of double takes the first day it happens, but he doesn't hesitate to put his hand out when Bellamy offers him a mint, already squinting at the smartphone in his other hand.

 

At any rate, Clarke seems more than happy enough, so, yeah, Bellamy can't complain. Especially not when she starts making a habit of rushing to his side the second Roan's out the door, giggling breathlessly as her elbow presses into his.

 

After a good two weeks of this slightly ludicrous arrangement, he's not sure who it is that's being conditioned by Clarke.

 

"I've offered mints to, like, four other customers today," Bellamy grumbles, shaking out a fresh bag for the trash bin. "People are going to start thinking I'm _nice_."

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, but keeps them on the receipts she's tallying up. "You _are_ nice," she tells him dismissively, pen stroking across a small sheet of paper. "Anyway, you can quit whining soon enough. It'll all be over by next week."

 

Bellamy looks at her, surprised at the slight stab of dismay. "Oh," he says, blinking. "Really?"

 

Yeah, it's a ridiculous, juvenile game, but _still._ It's been kind of _fun._

 

Everything always is with Clarke, he reminds himself silently.

 

She shrugs, failing to catch the look of disappointment on his face. "Yeah. When Raven gets back from her road trip."

 

Which means neither of them will be working the register, because Raven has a good six months' seniority in the shop.

 

"Right," he says. He flounders for a bit, unsure of what to say. 'Thanks for the game'? 'That was fun while it lasted'? What _is_ one supposed to say at the end of a secret conditioning experiment conducted for three weeks on an unsuspecting third party?

 

"Okay," is what he goes with in the end.

 

Clarke gathers up the receipts, casts a quick smile at him and disappears into the back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It feels weird at first, being back on full-time drinks duty with Clarke.

 

They've gotten so used to switching places at the register every hour or two. He even misses the light weight of the Eclipse tin tucked into his back pocket, pressing against his body.

 

He tries glancing discreetly at Clarke out of the corner of his eye, but she seems completely indifferent at having to revert back to normal, getting the orders in from Raven, filling them quickly and handing them off to customers with a brief smile.

 

 _Well,_ he thinks as he tears his eyes away from her, turns back to his own work, _what else did you expect? That she was gonna start hitting on you in front of Raven or something?_

 

 _Yes,_ a voice in the back of his mind yells.

 

Stupid. So, so stupid.

 

He heads towards the side counter, a customer's finished order in hand, but no sooner has he set the cup down than Clarke suddenly materialises at his side, clutching a bagged bagel in one hand and his elbow in the other.

 

She slides the bagel over to a skinny man in a striped tie, along with a bland smile.

 

"Thank you," she says politely, her fingers digging into Bellamy's elbow as the skinny guy grabs the paper bag and turns to leave. "See you again."

 

Bellamy looks down at her hand, brows shooting up in bemusement. "Wha—"

 

" _Shh,_ " she hisses under her breath, tugging on his arm so that their sides are pressed flush against each other. "He's here!"

 

"Huh? Who—"

 

And then Bellamy sees him — Roan, at the counter, rattling off his usual order to Raven, his icy gaze fixed firmly on the screen of his smartphone.

 

Clarke's hand tightens around his elbow, somehow pulling him even closer. "Wait for it," she breathes, low and quiet.

 

He tries _very_ hard not to think about how he can feel the side of her rounded chest, rising and falling against his arm with every breath she takes.

 

Raven drops a few coins into Roan's outstretched palm. "Your change, sir," she says carelessly, already looking past him. "Ne—"

 

And then she stops, Roan's other hand suddenly positioned inches away from her face.

 

You know that phrase, 'waiting with bated breath'? Bellamy's never actually _done_ that before in his life.

 

Until now.

 

"Uh," Raven says flatly, one brow arched. "What's happening here."

 

Roan looks up from his phone distractedly.

 

"Mint," he says, frowning as if irritated by the delay. "I'm waiting for my—"

 

And then he blinks at Raven's face, her features arranged into a truly impressive portrayal of skepticism.

 

His hand retracts backwards.

 

"Oh," he says, and it's the first thing Bellamy's ever heard him say other than _'Double espresso', 'large',_ and _'thanks'._ The fingers of his empty hand flex, before he drops it to his side, the silence drawing out awkwardly between them. "I think I'm mistaken here."

 

Raven snorts, one hand cocked on her hip. "Yeah, you're sure as hell _mistaken,_ buddy. Take a look _around._ If I had to offer a mint to every douchebag who came in here, I'd be fucking Queen Tic Tac before the day was out."

 

Suddenly, Bellamy's interrupted by a sharp yank on his arm.

 

"Run," Clarke whispers, eyes bright despite the hoarseness of her voice. " _Go!_ "

 

They move quickly, disappearing through the side door that leads to the back office.

 

Clarke bends over, her grip shifting on his arm, and he suddenly notices how hard she's trembling.

 

"Hey," he says, frowning with concern. "Are you—"

 

All of a sudden, his eyes adjust to the dimmer light, and he can see her face, half hidden behind her hair. She's _laughing._

 

"Sorry," she gasps, her free hand propped on her thigh. " _Sorry,_ I just— I was _so_ close to fucking _losing_ it out there. _Shit._ "

 

He exhales in relief, already grinning despite himself. "Jesus Christ. Did you really spend _three weeks_ setting up this _one_ prank?"

 

"You helped," Clarke retorts through her grin, before turning to press her nose to the glass panel in the middle of the door. "... Huh."

 

Bellamy raises a brow. "That doesn't sound good."

 

Clarke makes a small noise under her breath. "It's not— uh—" She sighs, reaching out to grab his arm again, pulling him to peer through the panel with her. "Here, look."

 

He leans in close next to her, frowning through the glass. Raven's scribbling on a piece of receipt paper, and Roan's standing there in front of the counter, _smiling._

 

"What the fuck?" Bellamy wonders aloud, the words already leaving his mouth before he can think about it.

 

They watch as Raven straightens, folds the paper in half, and hands it over to Roan. She's still frowning at him, but it's less— well— less _angry._

 

"Holy shit," Clarke says. "I think Roan just scored a date."

 

"No way," Bellamy blurts out automatically — but then, Raven _flips her hair._

 

His jaw drops.

 

"Raven's going on a date," he says, shell-shocked. "A date with _Roan._ "

 

Clarke huffs, his shoulder still pressed into his. "How the hell do you talk to someone for two minutes and _already_ manage to get a date? I've been talking to _you_ for, like, six _months._ "

 

He stops mid-nod, his head swivelling sharply towards her. "I— wait, _what_?"

 

She glances up at him, expression apologetic. "Sorry, was that too... I don't know, I'm not very good with this whole hitting-on-people thing."

 

"What the fuck," he says, staring at her.

 

"What the fuck," he says again as he cups her face, before diving in to kiss her.

 

They jump apart when Raven bangs through the door ten seconds later, her tan skin flushed all over.

 

"Save it for the break," she snaps at their guilty faces. "Come _on,_ I'm getting swamped out here. We'll celebrate you two getting your shit together _later,_ okay?"

 

Clarke's hand slips into his as they follow Raven out the door.

 

"So _cheerful_ from getting a date with a hot guy," she remarks slyly, squeezing Bellamy's hand before releasing it so they can both get back to work.

 

Raven snorts, glancing pointedly at Bellamy's face, glowing red and split wide with a huge grin. "Right back at you, Griffin."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic gave me such a bad craving i went out and bought two packs of mint dark chocolate I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY
> 
> kudos/comments always appreciated! =)
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)!


	13. forgot to propose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#13**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _"I'm thinking a spring wedding, or maybe fall, I don't want it to be too cold though."_  
>  _"Babe we aren’t even engaged"_  
>  _"sO THAT’S WHAT I FORGOT TO DO LAST NIGHT"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Caitlyn](http://sassamyblake.tumblr.com), as part of my url change + 1.5k follower celebration on tumblr!

  


 

"What?" Clarke asks, with a Cheshire-like grin.

 

He frowns at her, his gaze narrowing playfully. "What're you up to, Griffin?"

 

She brushes a perfect blonde curl out of her eyes with one hand and presses the other to her chest, feigning mild shock. "What _ever_ do you mean, Bellamy?"

 

"Sparkling wine," he observes, tapping their recently filled glasses. "That's not a _normal_ dinner drink."

 

"We have wine all the time!"

 

"Not the _sparkling_ variety," he retorts dryly. "We're at a _tablecloth_ restaurant, too. Cloth napkins. Proper candles, with _fire_ and everything." He cocks his head towards a small door off to the side. "If I go into that bathroom, is someone going to offer me a mint on my way out?"

 

"Methinks thou doth suspect too much," Clarke quotes innocently, with a light shrug thrown in for good measure.

 

"That's not the line," he says, already smiling despite himself. Clarke's been strung a little tighter than usual over the last couple weeks, checking and double-checking throughout the last few days to make sure that they're still on for tonight's seemingly special dinner. He's gone through his calendar multiple times, trying to figure out if he's forgotten their anniversary or some other important date. (And then he'd remembered that they don't _have_ an actual anniversary date, considering they'd only realised they were dating after several months of sleeping together in a manner they'd both thought was 'casual'.)

 

Between the two of them, Clarke's always been the one who's more rigid about things like dates and scheduling. Even so, something about the way she's been acting in the days leading up to _this_ particular dinner has just got his spidey senses tingling. Strangely enough, though, she's been _absurdly_ normal throughout the actual dinner. She's laughing frequently, and smiling easily. She's… almost bubbly. _Cheerful,_ even.

 

He's beginning to wonder if he'd imagined it all.

 

He leans forward, making sure to carefully drop his voice a couple of pitches, so it hits that rough tone that always sparks a reaction from his girlfriend. "I'll get it out of you, princess. One way or another."

 

Satisfaction spikes through him when she sits up at that, leaning forward as her face lights up with an interest that definitely isn't entirely innocent. "Oh, will you, now?"

 

He turns their lightly entwined hands over on the table, tracing a light line across her warm palm with the very tip of his finger. Light touches always get Clarke way more riled up than anything, a hint of teasing stoking her fire far more easily than the real thing does.

 

"Dessert first, Clarke," he says, letting a touch of desire underscore his low tone. "And _then_ I'll get it out of you."

 

She grins, leaning over even further so that his attention is drawn down to the line of her generous cleavage. A deliberate move, no doubt. "And here I was thinking _I_ could be dessert."

 

He groans, the sound of her laugh ringing clear in the air.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"How much do you think an open bar costs?"

 

Bellamy tears his gaze from his book to blink dazedly at his girlfriend.

 

"I… don't know," he says, uncertain. "Probably depends what's on tap. Maybe… thirty bucks a head? Forty?" He pauses, scratching at his jaw. "Fifty?"

 

Clarke flops down onto the couch next to him. "Are you just going to keep increasing your guesses by ten?"

 

He squints. "Sixty?"

 

"Helpful," she remarks, the corners of her mouth turning up despite her dry tone. She peers at her phone screen. "Not exactly cheap, though. Maybe we shouldn't do that then." She flings her phone aside, sighing dramatically. "Oh, but we _have_ to, if we want to do it in the summer. We can't _not_ have an open bar in _summer_."

 

He frowns slightly, peering at her over his glasses. It's not unusual for Clarke to vent to him about her job planning and coordinating events for the local museum. "Miller knows this alcohol dealer," he muses. "Pretty sure they used to work together. I can get him to pass along the guy's contact information, if that'd help."

 

She brightens instantly. "Yes, please!" she exclaims, typing rapidly on her phone. "Okay, so that's one thing down. Although, on second thought, we should really decide first if we _do_ want to do it in the summer." She pauses, wrinkling her nose. "Maybe fall would be more comfortable? In terms of sweat potential, obviously. Don't want the guests to spend the whole day all sticky and shit."

 

He lowers the book, now too perplexed to pay attention to anything else. "Obviously," he agrees slowly. "I guess. Uh, what—"

 

"Yeah, the colour scheme's going to be all off if we do it in fall," she says, focus already back on her phone. "Good point. Late summer, then? That's, like, a happy middle, right? Or maybe _early_ fall. I don't know, what do you think?"

 

"Um," he says, closing the book properly. This _really_ doesn't much sound like a work event at this point. For one, why is Clarke getting to choose the _season_?

 

More importantly, why is _he_ getting to choose the season?!

 

He clears his throat. "Are we… celebrating something?"

 

She snorts, both thumbs still skidding briskly across her screen. "Well, we're definitely not gonna be _mourning_ our wedding."

 

Bellamy's not sure, but he thinks he could just about make out the sound of the microwave going off in their neighbour's kitchen next door, the jarringly bright 'ding' cutting right through the walls.

 

He swallows, and blinks carefully. "We're… engaged?"

 

Fuck, is _that_ his voice? God, he hopes it doesn't actually sound that _yelp-y._

 

Clarke pauses, and for a moment, it's like he can _see_ into her brain, all the gears and cogs grinding to an abrupt halt so that she just _hangs_ there, like an ACME cartoon character suspended in mid-air.

 

"Oh," she exclaims suddenly, looking up as she draws the single syllable out. "So _that's_ what I forgot to do last night!"

 

" _What_ ," he starts to say, but she's already bounded off the couch.

 

"Fuck, where is it," he hears her mutter to herself as she rifles through her purse, lying forgotten on the living room floor where she'd flung it last night, too preoccupied with the sensation of his lips on her neck to bother with putting it away properly. "Where the— _ah!_ "

 

She's back on the couch within _seconds,_ her face flushed and half-covered with untameable strands of blonde, all escapees of the loose braid she'd knotted her hair into earlier that morning. There's a small velvet box in her hands, just a little smaller than her palm, and _holy fuck,_ if that's what Bellamy _thinks_ it is—

 

"Sorry, I forgot to do this last night," she says, a little breathless through her grin. "Well, to be fair, it was probably more your fault. You just _had_ to go and distract me with sex."

 

" _I'm_ not the one who started making innuendoes about _dessert,_ " he says tremulously, quickly laying his book aside.

 

She pauses, lowering the box on instinct. "You don't _seriously_ expect me to _not_ make an innuendo when you'd already set it up right—"

 

" _Clarke_ ," he interrupts, strained, with a pointed glance at the box. God, his heart is pounding so hard, it might just burst right through the cavity of his chest at any fucking _second._

 

"Right, got it, _got it,_ just—" She breaks off and closes her eyes, taking a deep, bracing breath before opening them again, the grin reappearing on her face like she just can't keep it off. "Bellamy Blake," she begins, her left hand clamped over the lid of the velvet box. "You are— _fuck_ — you're my best friend in the whole world, and I can't ever, _ever_ imagine life without—"

 

"I love you," he blurts out. He can't _help_ it. His heart is literally, physically _bursting._ "Fuck, sorry," he says in a rush, "I didn't mean to—"

 

"No, _no,_ it's okay," Clarke laughs, her grin splitting even wider. "You know what? You're right, fuck the speech." She opens the box, and at the sight of the plain silver band sitting there, the air fucking _catches_ in his goddamn _lungs._ "Will you marry me?"

 

"Yes," he says instantly, lunging forward to kiss her, both hands finding the sides of her face to hold both of them steady. They're both smiling when he tears away. "Shit, was that too soon? I think I was supposed to wait a second or something before—"

 

Clarke's eyes are shining, full of unshed tears, and with the way his vision is blurring in and out, he's pretty sure his are, too. She shakes her head, her hand fisting into his shirt to pull him back towards her. "It was perfect," she assures him, right before pressing her lips to his.

 

Hell, that's more than enough for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts/feelings always welcome!
> 
> let's hang [on tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


	14. memory loss au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#14: you had an accident and hit your head. the doctor says you have some kind of amnesia that restarts your memory every few hours, but that doesn’t change the fact that we’re still married so please stop with the flirty pick up lines**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [she-is-made-of-outer-space](she-is-made-of-outer-space.tumblr.com), as part of my url change + 1.5k follower celebration on tumblr!
> 
> i decided to make this an archaeologists au while i'm at it, because life is short and we should Live It

 

 

 

Bellamy wakes up to a rhythmic, steady prodding, something both hard and soft jabbing into his temple, over and over again.

 

He snaps his head up from the bed he's currently slumped sideways over, his legs numb from hours in the hospital chair. " _Clarke_?"

 

She blinks at him, her face clean save for a couple of small scrapes and the butterfly bandage across her brow. "You're sleeping on my arm."

 

"Oh, _shit_." He opens his fists instantly, releasing her hand from the confines of his sleep-heavy slump. "Sorry, I— are you okay? How are you feeling?"

 

Her eyes travel slowly around the room, taking in the bed and the beeping machines. "Am I in the hospital?"

 

All the breath rushes out of him in a desperate wave of relief and worry. " _Yes,_ you're in the hospital. Do you want some water? Here, have some water."

 

She merely blinks at the cup he brings over to her from the bedside table, frowning slightly at the straw he holds out to her before looking up at him.

 

"Are you a nurse?"

 

He rolls his eyes, even as he welcomes the release of anxiety lifting off his shoulders. If she's already back to cracking jokes, she _must_ be feeling fine. "Sure, Clarke. Here, drink some water."

 

She sips obediently, settling back into her pillow as she watches him bring the cup back to the bedside table. "You're not wearing scrubs."

 

"They ran out of my colour," he says dryly, moving back to the bed to perch gently on it, careful to avoid jostling her.

 

She hums silently, head cocked as she observes him. "Shame. I _love_ a man in a uniform."

 

He blinks at the familiar curve of her lips. That's definitely _not_ her usual happy-Clarke smile. That looks a _lot_ more like Clarke's _I'm-about-to-make-YOU-very-happy_ smile.

 

"Clarke," he says, "are you feeling alright?"

 

She shifts on the bed, still smiling that coy smile. "Come on, now. That's not fair. You know my name, but I don't know yours." She pauses, head tilting invitingly. "FYI, this bed's not the only thing in this room that's single, you know."

 

He stares at her for a full three seconds, every last inch of him frozen solid.

 

And then he leaps off the bed, bounding to the door and flinging it open.

 

" _Nurse!_ "

 

 

* * *

 

 

"It's an abbreviated form of short term memory loss," Dr. Woods explains as he stands at the foot of Clarke's bed, holding up an X-ray print-out. "There are no detectable fractures or major contusions, so the impact shouldn't leave any lasting damage. But for now, it appears that Dr. Griffin will experience some momentary lapses in her memory bank."

 

"For how long?" Bellamy asks, arms folded tightly across his chest. "What kind of _lapses_ are we looking at here?"

 

Dr. Woods frowns in thought, tucking the print-out back into the folder in his other hand. "Her vitals are strong, all her reflexes are working fine. She knows personal details like her date of birth, her parents' names, her educational background. In fact, she appears to remember just about everything up until about five or six years ago."

 

"Which is right around the time _we_ met," Bellamy sighs, glancing at her. She appears mildly interested by the news at best, preoccupied with a Jell-O cup brought in by Dr. Woods.

 

"Her memory should return on its own, and rather quickly, I think," the doctor surmises, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as he surveys her. "Maybe in a few days' time. Maybe even tomorrow. Although, there might be some slippage here and there. For example," he adds at Bellamy's confused frown, "she knows who you are _now_. But she might forget again in, say, an hour or two."

 

"Awesome," Bellamy says, with a small grimace.

 

Dr. Woods smiles. "In the meantime, keep her rested, hydrated, and out of the hot sun as far as you can help it. The important thing is to jog her memory as gently as possible. Try going about your usual daily routine as best as you can."

 

"Might have to pick just _one_ of those things," Bellamy mutters. Their version of a 'daily routine' isn't what most would call normal.

 

Dr. Woods smiles. "Perhaps avoid the dig site for today. Take her somewhere she can rest that's familiar."

 

Bellamy sighs, unfolding his arms. "I can do that. Thanks, Dr. Woods."

 

"Lincoln. Please." The doctor reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a small white card. "If you have any questions at all, Dr. Blake, don't hesitate to call."

 

Bellamy takes the card and tucks it into his jeans pocket, his free hand reaching out to shake the doctor's. "In that case, it's Bellamy to you."

 

Clarke cocks her head, plastic spoon still caught between her teeth. "Isn't that a girl's name?"

 

Bellamy groans.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are we _really_ married?" Clarke asks as he slowly pulls out of the parking lot. It's been an hour since Lincoln gave them the green light to leave, but he's still _worried._

 

He huffs a dry laugh, one that catches even himself by surprise. "You know, it's funny, but there was once a time where I probably wouldn't have believed it, either."

 

She frowns. "Why?"

 

He pulls to a gentle stop at a red light. "It's… complicated." He catches sight of her unamused expression, blue eyes narrowed at him. "Well, let's just say you didn't like me very much when we first met."

 

"Oh." Her nose wrinkles. "I find _that_ hard to believe."

 

His brows shoot up on his forehead. "You do?"

 

She shrugs. "You're cute. And hot. And bossy, like me."

 

 _Bossy._ He gapes at her.

 

She looks at him, face still scrunched in contemplation. "Maybe I was just attracted to you and didn't want to admit it. I tend to do that when I'm in denial. Go."

 

He blinks, dazed. "What?"

 

"Go," she repeats, pointing at the light. Which has turned green.

 

"Shit, right—" He quickly shifts the car into gear, starting forward.

 

The gentle hum of the engine fills the car for a few beats.

 

"Are you _really_ a doctor?" she asks.

 

Bellamy glances at her. "Not _that_ kind of doctor. I mean, well— I have a _doctorate._ "

 

She nods, solemn. "I'm gonna get one too, you know."

 

He smiles. "You already did. Finished last year," he supplies at her confused frown.

 

"I did?" she says, surprised. "What did I do my thesis on? No, wait—" she flaps a hand at him, "—don't tell me. I should figure it out on my own. Don't want to spoil something for myself."

 

"You're a temporary _amnesiac_ ," Bellamy says, incredulous. "Not a _time traveller._ "

 

She flips her hair. "Just being safe."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once Bellamy's gotten Clarke safely installed in their cabin at the campsite, he calls Raven. Mostly because she's the only person onsite that Clarke's known for longer than six years, so if anything should help with the recovery of her memory, it would be Raven's presence.

 

Unfortunately, once Raven's been informed that Clarke's not in any real danger, she seems to think she's been summoned just so she can be thoroughly entertained by the whole situation.

 

"No, no, wait!" Raven exclaims, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Say the line again. The bed one!"

 

"No," Bellamy says flatly, getting up to fetch more iced tea.

 

"Say the one from the coffee shop! Come on, dude, _please_!"

 

Bellamy huffs, bringing the pitcher over to refill their empty glasses.

 

On their way back, they'd stopped off at a coffee shop to pick up sandwiches for lunch. While they were standing in line, Clarke had apparently experienced her first lapse, resulting in yet another embarrassing episode that had had Bellamy flushing red to the tips of his ears.

 

"You know, if you're not going to _help_ —"

 

"I asked him if I could have his number," Clarke supplies readily. "Because I'd lost mine."

 

Raven actually _keels over_ from how hard she's laughing.

 

"I can't _believe_ this!" she manages through the peals of laughter. "You are actually _the whitest_ frat boy!"

 

"This isn't news," Clarke tells Raven, smiling despite herself.

 

"It is when you've been boring as _fuck_ ever since you married _this_ prick," Raven retorts, jabbing a thumb towards Bellamy.

 

"Helpful," Bellamy repeats, settling back down into his seat beside Clarke.

 

Raven yanks her phone from her pocket, aiming the camera at them both with unabashed glee. "Okay, okay — say it again!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Raven stays another two hours, which is about as long as she can afford to spare, with both Bellamy and Clarke temporarily removed from the dig site.

 

In that time, Clarke has yet another lapse, one in which she seems to think Bellamy is Raven's hot friend, and attempts to get him to feel her shirt which is, spoiler alert, made of girlfriend material.

 

Raven actually has to _gasp_ for breath after that.

 

Before she goes, she makes one legitimately helpful contribution to the situation ( _finally_ ), which is to record a video of herself basically telling Clarke, _"Don't panic, your memory's out of whack for a bit, oh and, that dude with you is your husband, NOT your kidnapper"._

 

Bellamy walks back into the cabin, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Dr. Woods says walking is fine, just as long as you take it slow." He checks his watch and glances out the window. "It's pretty cool out by now. Sun's about to go down in an hour or so." He looks at her, questioning. "Are you tired? Do you want to take a nap, or—"

 

"I'm fine," she says, already standing. "A walk sounds good."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy's not sure who felt more unsafe on that simple hour-long walk: Clarke, when she'd lapsed and spent a full minute freaking out about being lost in the woods with a strange man, or himself, when he'd gotten her to watch Raven's video and then had to deal with a whole series of pick-up lines from his wife barely five minutes later, each one worse than the last.

 

When dinnertime arrives, he's reluctant to risk going to the mess area. Too many strangers, too many variables for Clarke to contend with. After considering his options, he pulls out his phone, and shoots off a text to Raven asking her to bring some food over.

 

In the end, he's not entirely sure going to the mess area hadn't been the better idea, especially when Clarke lapses _again._ Especially when she asks him if he's _"a baker, because your buns look good",_ and Raven instantly loses her shit, nearly dropping her phone into a plastic tub of stew.

 

"This is insane," he mutters when Clarke disappears into the bathroom. "She wasn't ever like _this_ when we first met!"

 

Raven rolls her eyes. "Yes, she was. You were just too busy flirting back to care."

 

He leans back, his mouth falling open in surprise. "We were fighting all the time!"

 

Raven makes a 'tsk' noise, impatient. "Which, as everyone here knows, is also _flirting,_ Bellamy-and-Clarke _stylez_." She punches lightly at his shoulder. " _You're_ the one that's different, idiot."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Clarke looks up, her brows furrowed. "What?"

 

Bellamy sighs, moving over to sit on the bed next to her. "I haven't been very much fun today. I know I'm supposed to be… _normal,_ help you relax and all, but I— I don't know. I guess I'm just worried about you."

 

A small hand covers his.

 

"It's fine, Bellamy," Clarke says with a small smile. "I understand. It's hard for you, too. I'm just trying to remember things, but you — you just want your wife back."

 

Bellamy swallows, daring to turn his palm about so his hand can wrap around hers. "She hasn't gone anywhere. You're still my wife, Clarke. I love you, memories or no." He squeezes gently, his other hand moving to rest lightly over hers. "Always will, princess."

 

She squints then. "Huh."

 

He frowns, leaning forward in concern. "What? Does your head hurt?"

 

"No, I—" She shakes her head, and blinks. "'Princess.' That sounds familiar."

 

His heart is filling up so fast, his chest lighter than it's been ever since he got the call telling him to come to the hospital forty-eight hours ago. "It does?"

 

She looks up at him, eyes narrowing playfully. "I'm guessing that has something to do with you?"

 

He smiles, and leans in carefully, pressing his lips to her temple. "Something," he agrees, pulling back to give her a fond look, his thumb rubbing over the back of her hand. "Although—"

 

She jumps slightly on the bed, throwing out a hand to cut him off. "No, don't tell me!" She grins, squeezing on his hand reassuringly. "I want to figure it out on my own." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Clarke's memory returns.

 

"I mean, I still have _some_ gaps here and there," she tells him as they're lying in bed, having spent the last forty minutes getting 'reacquainted'. "But all the _important_ bits are there." She grins wolfishly, poking playfully at the bulge of his cock, lying limp and sated under the sheet. "Also, all the _really_ important bits are _here_."

 

Bellamy catches at her hand, bringing it up to his lips so he can press a light, teasing kiss to it before rolling over, one elbow holding him up as he leans over her.

 

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Clarke Griffin," he says solemnly, releasing her hand so he can trail his down her body, "but whatever the case, I hope I'm next."

 

Her brows shoot up in surprise. "Hey, you made one! That was really—"

 

She doesn't get to finish the rest of her sentence.

 

He's pretty sure she doesn't mind.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just as bad at flirting as both bellamy and clarke. 
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


	15. and the biggest bellarke shipper is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#15** : 
> 
> Jasper's not blind. He's seen it ever since the first day of college — when he'd walked onto that courtyard, and saw a small, curvy blonde scowling at a broad-shouldered man with a head full of dark curls and a lazy smirk.
> 
> Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are _meant_ to be together.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _prompt: Jasper thinks he’s the biggest Bellarke shipper, but surprisingly it’s actually Murphy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [thebonnielassofyvie](http://thebonnielassofyvie.tumblr.com), for my url change + 1.5k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

 

Jasper Jordan is many things.

 

He's rash and impulsive. He's energetic and enthusiastic. He swallows without chewing when he's hungry. He can be oblivious and selfish at times, but he always has good intentions. He's loyal, but he holds grudges. He's a little _too_ into _High School Musical,_ in a way that precariously toes the thin line between ironic and unironic.

 

But the one thing Jasper Jordan is _not,_ is _blind._

 

He's seen it ever since the first day of college — when he'd walked onto that courtyard, and saw a small, curvy blonde scowling at a broad-shouldered man with a head full of dark curls and a lazy smirk.

 

Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin are _meant_ to be together.

 

"No, you're not blind," Monty had said in their dorm room later that night, "but it's possible that you're just a little _too_ optimistic."

 

"Aha!" he'd yelled, one finger jabbed towards his friend. "You said I'm not blind!"

 

What? The important thing was, he'd been _right._

 

And he _still_ is. Because after _four years_ of him telling _everyone_ that Bellamy and Clarke _belong_ together, he's finally being _proved right._ After four years of scheming to set them up on impromptu dates, of poorly disguised hints and pointed suggestions that were really only translucent at best, of being told to _'shut up, Jasper'_ whenever he crows over their _obvious_ mutual attraction and respect and _adoration,_ Jasper Jordan is finally receiving his _vindication._

 

Because they finally _are_ together!

 

Well. They're _living_ together, at least.

 

"It's a _step,_ " he insists as they spill out of Miller's car. "It's a _step_ in the _right_ direction. _My_ direction."

 

Harper pushes her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, slipping her free hand into the pockets of her shorts. They've all dressed light, ready to help Bellamy and Clarke with unpacking and getting the apartment set up. "Maybe it'd help if you stop saying it like you're a nineteenth century duchess matchmaking your pudgy son to his third cousin who's, like, fourteen years old?"

 

"And keep your _elbows_ to yourself when you're sharing the backseat of a car with two other people," Murphy snipes grouchily as he rubs over a lightly bruised rib. "I call shotgun next time."

 

Monty shrugs unconcernedly as Miller locks up the car. "Shotgun rights are good for roundtrips. So, return trip included."

 

Miller squints at them, the side of his palm pressed to his forehead to block out the sun. "You guys realise we're all officially out of _college_ now, right? As in, certified _adults_?"

 

They all start towards the building, mumbling non-committally.

 

Miller shrugs, pulling the door open for them. "Whatever. Monty's right, anyway. Return trip included."

 

Murphy rolls his eyes at Monty's low hiss of triumph and accompanying fist pump.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Raven's already in the kitchen when Bellamy lets them in, seated at the table and snorting over something on her phone as Clarke stands at the counter, mix up a large pitcher of something that looks fruity and hopefully at least mildly alcoholic.

 

"Took you guys long enough," the brunette says, accepting a large Solo cup of the drink from Clarke.

 

Miller rolls his eyes, pushing her feet off the chair adjacent to hers so he can flop down into it. "We can't all live two floors down _,_ Reyes."

 

"Is that sangria?" Jasper demands, bounding over to the counter. "I want sangria!"

 

"You're getting it," Clarke says dryly, handing him a Solo cup of his own. "We'd use real glasses and everything, but they're still boxed up, and that's what you're all here for, so. This is what you get."

 

"You had time to make _sangria_?" Monty asks, sniffing at the cup she presses into his hands.

 

"It's basically just fruit juice and alcohol," Harper points out, passing a cup along to Murphy. "Everyone has fruit juice and alcohol."

 

"Everyone has alcohol, at least," Murphy says, already pouring himself a refill.

 

"Go easy on that shit," Bellamy warns, frowning as he accepts the cup Clarke hands him. "We've got a lot of work to do today."

 

"Yeah, no, I'm just gonna keep drinking," Murphy says. "Unless you're planning on paying us actual money."

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. "There're two six-packs in the fridge."

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they _do_ get down to work, everybody's at least one sangria in and pleasantly buzzed. Raven gets their speaker system set up first, plugging the auxiliary cord into Harper's phone so they've got something to bop along to as they slice open boxes and unload utensils and books and other knick-knacks.

 

"The PlayStation!" Jasper exclaims, lighting up at the sight of the familiar PS4 console sitting in the box. He lifts it out eagerly, holding it high for everyone to see like it's a lion cub and he's a kooky old baboon standing on top of a giant rock. "You guys kept it!"

 

Clarke raises a brow, elbow deep in a box full of clothes, a grey scarf wrapped around her neck and a large pair of aviators propped on top of her head. "Were we supposed to throw it out?"

 

"In this hallowed box," Jasper continues, blissfully ignoring her, "lies the sacred records that make up the Bellarke _legend._ How many _Call of Duty_ campaigns have they conquered on this thing? How many _Black Ops_ missions have they completed, with nothing but the sweat on their brows and the power of teamwork to pull them through? How many—"

 

"How many more rhetorical questions can he think of before running out of steam," Clarke interrupts dryly, casting an exasperated look at Monty.

 

"How many times do we have to tell him to just use our names instead of some weird portmanteau," Bellamy adds, hefting a box into his arms. "This one belongs in my room."

 

Clarke stands too, lifting another box with her. "And this one belongs in mine. Back in a sec, guys."

 

Miller prods his toe into the back of Jasper's knee, causing his leg to buckle under him. "Quit holding it like that. You're gonna drop it."

 

"I will if you do _that,_ " Jasper argues petulantly, pouting as he hands the console off to Raven. "They're always so _evasive._ "

 

Harper turns from where she and Miller have just moved an empty bookshelf into place against the wall, dusting her hands off on her shorts. "Or, you were just being _annoying_ ," she points out cheerfully,

 

Jasper scoffs theatrically. "I think I know _evasion_ when I see it. Don't I, Monty?"

 

"Sure you do," Monty says placidly. "Hey, anyone holding on to the boxcutter?"

 

"Here," Raven calls, tossing it halfway across the room.

 

Murphy shoves a box into Jasper's hands. "Here, master of evasion. Go ask Mom and Dad where this is supposed to go."

 

Jasper frowns down at the box, tape sliced open but flaps closed. "Well, what's in it?"

 

"Couple of cans of hairspray. Bunch of yearbooks. Waxing strips." Murphy wrinkles his nose. "A Cluedo set."

 

Jasper stares at him, wide-eyed. "Where's all _that_ supposed to go?!"

 

Murphy shrugs, already slouching away. "If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you to ask _them,_ would I?"

 

Jasper rolls his eyes, but starts out of the living room obediently. "You know," he huffs on his way out, "saying _'please'_ never hurt anybody."

 

" _Please_ shut up," Murphy says flatly.

 

Jasper cranes his head over his shoulder, sticking his tongue out before turning into the hallway.

 

He frowns, using his foot to push open the first door he comes to, but it turns out to be the bathroom.

 

"Damn it," he mutters, adjusting his hold on the box before continuing down the small hallway. The door right at the end is closed, but the one just diagonally across from the bathroom is already ajar, so he just pushes right through with no preamble.

 

"Hey guys, where do you want the—"

 

Two heads whip around to face the doorway where Jasper is standing, gobsmacked.

 

"Holy shit," he breathes.

 

"Jasper," Clarke says carefully, untangling her fingers from Bellamy's hair.

 

"Holy _shit_ ," he insists, reeling back a step.

 

"Remain calm," Bellamy warns warily, sliding his hand out from under Clarke's shirt. His lips are shiny with a thin layer of gloss, peachy-pink to match the one dabbed all over Clarke's mouth.

 

" _Holy shit!_ " he yells stubbornly, backpedalling out of the room.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, and Bellamy sighs.

 

"GUYS!" Jasper shouts, barrelling back down the hallway. "OI! _YOU GUYS!_ "

 

(Behind him, he vaguely registers the sound of a loud scoff, followed by Clarke's voice sarcastically echoing " _Remain calm"_.)

 

Raven pokes her head out from behind the TV when he charges into the living room, the rest of the group looking up as well. "What's with all the ruckus? I'm workin' here."

 

"Kissing!" Jasper exclaims breathlessly. He would gesture wildly behind him, but his arms are still occupied with the box, so he just ends up doing a little body-roll type of move as he tries to point down the hallway with his shoulders and head. " _Making out!_ "

 

"I _told_ you he needed to get laid soon," Miller scolds Monty. "Look at him. He's _desperate_ now."

 

Harper shrugs, unruffled. "Still not the weirdest open invite I've ever received."

 

Jasper actually _jumps_ in frustration. "Not _me_!" He kicks out heatedly, jabbing his foot towards the hall from which Bellamy and Clarke are just emerging, hair and clothes fixed but with wry expressions on their faces. " _Them!_ "

 

Silence lands in the room.

 

Raven's standing now, a small screwdriver dangling from her slack grasp. "Hold up."

 

"Making out," Monty repeats with a frown.

 

Miller lifts a hand, pointing directly at Bellamy and Clarke. " _Those_ two?" he asks Jasper incredulously.

 

" _Yes!_ " Jasper bursts out, the box rattling hollowly in his arms.

 

Silence again.

 

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair, exchanging a glance with Clarke before stepping forward. "Okay," he begins, hands held out in front of him. "We just want to say — it _really_ hasn't been going on _that_ long. Either way, we _know_ we shouldn't have kept this from you guys, but we just thought—"

 

He breaks off at the sound of a loud, sharp sob, blinking blankly at Murphy as the other man lunges forward, wrapping him in a tight hug.

 

Everybody looks on in stunned silence, jaws hanging open. As far as they all know, Murphy's never once _cried_ in front of them _._ (No one's even sure if he's physically _capable_ of doing so.)

 

Clarke inches closer, flashing Bellamy a confused look over the sound of muffled sobs. "Murphy? Are you o—"

 

A skinny arm shoots out, hooking around her neck and dragging her into the hug.

 

"I'm so—" Murphy cries into the juncture where Clarke and Bellamy's shoulders are mashed together, "—fucking _happy_ for you guys. _Fuck._ "

 

"What the hell," Jasper says loudly, finally dropping the box with an unceremonious thud. "What the _hell_!"

 

"Huh," Miller says thoughtfully, crossing his arms. "So, Jordan's _not_ the biggest Bellarke shipper."

 

Bellamy's gaze slides to Clarke, one brow lifted as they both pat Murphy's shaking back. " _Told_ you we should have just unpacked by ourselves."

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm [on tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


	16. we drunk-kissed but you forgot about it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#16**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "We got a little _too_ drunk, and we— we kissed. By accident."
> 
> Raven rolls her eyes. " _God_. You two are literally the most _boring_ couple that aren't _actually_ a couple to have ever existed in the history of forever."
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _prompt: “we drunk-kissed but you forgot about it and i don’t know how to act around you anymore wtf"_
> 
>  
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [thehundredbellarke](http://thehundredbellarke.tumblr.com) as part of my 1.5k follower celebration on tumblr!

 

 

 

 

 

"You're late," Raven announces when Bellamy walks in, barely looking up from where she's shaking M&M's into a bowl with a distinct air of mild vengeance. "The last time we did movie night, you gave _me_ all kinds of shit for being, like, two minutes late. And now, _you're_ late. So, A+ for hypocrisy, I guess, assho—"

 

"Shut up," Bellamy says automatically, ducking into the kitchen with a furtive glance down the hallway. A chorus of muffled laughter drifts in from the living room, a small whoop from Jasper ringing clear above the noise. "Is Clarke here?"

 

Raven tears her gaze away from her snacks to raise a brow at him. "Of course Clarke is here. Why the hell wouldn't Clarke be here? Why would you come all the way in here just to—" Her eyes widen, and she drops the bag of M&M's onto the counter, turning to face him. "What the hell did you do?"

 

"Nothing," he says defensively, crossing his arms in front of him. "Nothing's up. Why would you think something's up?"

 

Raven's sharp gaze narrows. "Because you walked in here to find out if Clarke was here instead of just going in there and, I don't know, using your _eyeballs_?" She cocks her head, face scrunching in suspicion. "Also, I didn't ask what was _up._ I asked what did you _do._ "

 

For a brief moment, Bellamy pauses to think about what it would be like to attempt lying to Raven, just to get out of this awkward situation.

 

It takes him approximately two point four seconds to arrive at the conclusion that it would most likely be far less awkward if he chose not to attempt it at all.

 

He takes a deep breath, glancing warily over his shoulder. "Okay, fine. If you _must_ know — last night, Clarke and I were hanging out—"

 

" _Big_ shocker," Raven deadpans, one brow arched. "Continue."

 

"And we were— well, we had a few _drinks_ —"

 

Raven snorts. "Even _bigger_ shocker. And?"

 

"And then," he says, his voice strained. "And then we… kissed."

 

Silence.

 

Raven frowns. " _And_... ?"

 

He reels back a step, unsure how to react to her total lack of surprise. "And… that's it. We got a little _too_ drunk, and we— we kissed. By accident."

 

Raven rolls her eyes. " _God._ You two are literally the most _boring_ couple that aren't _actually_ a couple to have ever existed in the history of forever."

 

"Hey," he says, wounded. "That's not _boring_! That's—"

 

She waves impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, now your heart's all aflutter and the butterfly army's laid siege to your stomach. I get it. What's the real _issue_ here?"

 

He shifts from one foot to the other. "I— I think Clarke might've forgotten about it."

 

Raven _does_ look surprised then, eyes widening in disbelief. "Say what?"

 

"I just—" He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair. "Nothing _happened_ after that. But then earlier today, she… she _texted_ me. _Big_ shocker, I know," he cuts in immediately at the sight of Raven's mouth opening, rolling his eyes. "But the thing is, she was all— all _normal._ All friendly and shit, asking me what flavour chips she should buy for tonight. She didn't mention the— she didn't even mention _last night_ at all."

 

"Huh," Raven says, one hand propped on her hip as she frowns in consideration. The Clarke Griffin they know doesn't gloss over sticky situations in this way. She either confronts it head on, or avoids it altogether.

 

Raven purses her lips, brows furrowing tighter. "Okay, well. Who kissed who?"

 

"Whom," Bellamy corrects automatically. At her scowl, he shrugs. "It's 'whom' when it's the _object_ of—"

 

"Shut up," Raven snaps. "Who did the _kissing,_ all right? Who made the first move!"

 

"I don't know!" he whispers hoarsely, glancing to the doorway to make sure they're not being too loud. "We were, like, eight beers in each!" He swallows, trying to refrain from breaking out into a cold sweat. "It— it might've been her? Or maybe it was me. _Fuck._ I seriously, _genuinely_ don't know, okay?"

 

"Shit, okay, calm down," Raven says, flapping a hand at him. "Jeez, didn't realise you were _this_ torn up about it."

 

"It was a _kiss,_ Raven," he retorts. "It wasn't like we just exchanged a drunken _high-five._ "

 

Raven levels an incredulous look at him. "You've literally had _threesomes,_ Bellamy."

 

He throws his hands up into the air, exasperated. "This isn't going anywhere."

 

She sighs. "Okay, okay, fine. Look, just… be cool, all right? You don't know for _sure_ if Clarke really _did_ forget — which, by the way, _doesn't_ sound like Clarke at all. I've seen her throw back five shots of tequila in a row and then, _right_ after, name all the Marvel movies _in perfect chronological order._ "

 

Bellamy pauses, his nose scrunching. " _Chronological_ —"

 

Raven shrugs. "She says it's a gift. Whatever. Either way, right now, what you _do_ know is that she's playing it cool. So, just, y'know — follow her lead until you can figure out what's up."

 

He blinks, his breathing evening out as he absorbs her words. "That's… actually not a bad plan, Reyes."

 

She scoffs, picking up her giant bowl of M&M's. "Good luck with the _butterflies,_ Blake."

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _There_ you are," Miller exclaims when Bellamy walks in, followed closely by Raven. "Will you _please_ tell Jordan that we're not watching _Now You See Me_ for the second time in two fucking months?"

 

"It's _Now You See Me 2_!" Jasper protests, already waving a Blu-ray case around. "The _second_ one!"

 

"Now you'll see my _fist_ ," Miller threatens darkly.

 

"I think Miller's a little tired of magic," Monty translates mildly, and a knowing look passes around the room as everyone recalls their recent group attempt to watch all eight _Harry Potter_ movies in a row, an experience that had — unsurprisingly, in Bellamy's opinion — turned out to be more torturous than enjoyable.

 

"Okay, what about _Ocean's Eleven_?" Clarke interjects, sifting through the small pile of movies on the coffee table. She turns to look at Miller, one brow raised. "Or are all heist movies off the table?"

 

Miller shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "I can live with some Vegas action, sure."

 

Jasper scoffs quietly, catching the Blu-ray case Clarke tosses him. "You know what else takes place in Vegas? _Now You_ —"

 

"Finish that sentence," Miller says loudly. "I fuckin' dare you."

 

While the rest of the group is temporarily distracted with alternatively trying to calm Miller down (Monty) and rile him up even more (Raven), Bellamy moves slowly over to the couch. He tries to play it cool, but it's a lot harder to do that when he's too busy figuring out how to wipe his clammy hands off on his jeans without being too obvious.

 

Clarke looks up as he approaches, her face already lighting up with a bright smile. "Hey, you took long enou—"

 

"Can we talk," he blurts out.

 

Fuck. _What._

 

 _One job,_ he scolds himself silently. It's all he can do to refrain from slapping his palm to his forehead.

 

To his surprise, Clarke jumps up readily.

 

"Sure," she says, leading the way back into the kitchen.

 

As he follows her out of the living room, he's acutely aware of the butterflies fluttering back to life in his stomach.

 

 _Fuck you,_ he thinks despairingly. Like this isn't hard enough.

 

Clarke spins about once they're in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed expectantly. "What's up?"

 

Bellamy swallows. Well. Now or never.

 

 _Never,_ his brain screams despondently.

 

"I just wanted to—" he begins awkwardly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "I mean, I thought we should— that is, when you—"

 

"Bellamy." Clarke's face is neutral, in that perfectly curated way only she seems to be capable of pulling off — blank, but neither cold nor hard. "We have about three minutes before one of the kids notices we're gone. Maybe just spit it out?"

 

He clears his throat. "Right. Uh. I just wanted to… make sure we were good."

 

Her brows furrow sharply, and he can practically see the word _good_ bouncing off the walls of her mind as she processes the statement.

 

"Of course we are," she says slowly, her face still slightly scrunched with what he _thinks_ is confusion. "Why wouldn't we—" She breaks off, her eyes widening. "Wait. Is this about the kiss?"

 

His jaw drops. "Oh, my God. You _remember_ it?!"

 

She looks downright _bewildered_ at that. "What? I _kissed_ you, didn't I? Why wouldn't I remember it?"

 

Taking a brief moment to get over _'I kissed you'_ , he blinks at her. "But— but you were all… normal."

 

Her cheeks bloom then, flushes of warm pink spreading across her fair skin.

 

"Oh," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Yeah, I— I don't know. I thought we could just keep going? Like, nothing has to _change_ , really. This—" taking one step closer, she gestures between them, "—this is good, you know? We don't have to act all lovey-dovey or whatever just because we're a— a _thing_ now."

 

He's not sure if a 'conscious blackout' is an actual medical occurrence, but whether it is or not, he's definitely going through one right now.

 

"A _thing,_ " he croaks.

 

Her face grows even redder, and she shrugs, taking another step closer. "Yeah, I mean— well, I'd be _fine_ with being that way if that's what you wanted? I know I've never been big on PDA, I just thought you wouldn't—"

 

She trails off, frowning as she studies his face. "Oh. Wait. Did I—" She gestures between them once more, brows knitting together. "Was _this_ not, uh, clear?"

 

"Could have been clearer," he manages, slightly strangled.

 

A small smile tugs at her lips, the frown lifting from her features. "I'll try to keep that in mind from now on."

 

That revives his senses, his shoulders relaxing as he feels himself slip into their easy back-and-forth rhythm. "Yeah, next time let's not wait till the twelfth round of alcohol to have that conversation."

 

She nods pertly. "Have serious relationship conversation _before_ object of affection gets wasted. Got it."

 

He opens and closes his mouth. He can feel pure joy bursting in his chest, but it's _too much._ He can't even handle _smiling_ right now.

 

"Just to be clear," he blurts out. He gestures between them. "This— this is happening, right?"

 

She pauses, cocking her head. "Well. I _thought_ it was."

 

His breath stutters. " _Was_?"

 

She shrugs, grinning wryly. "I don't know. Now I just kind of feel like I took advantage of you."

 

"I wasn't _wasted_ ," he says instantly. "A little _disoriented,_ maybe."

 

She rolls her eyes, but even that's not enough to distract him from the extra step she takes towards him, bringing her within arm's reach. "Okay, well, how do you feel _now,_ hotshot?"

 

 _Finally,_ his face splits with a wide grin. He reaches for her, covering the last vestiges of space between them with a single step. "Think I'm about to feel a lot better."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Congratulations," Raven says when they break the news to the group, one sardonic brow raised over her genuine smile. "You two are officially the most _boring_ couple to have ever existed that are _actually_ a couple."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got [tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com) for that


	17. a soulmate’s mark appears in their native language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#17**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>    
> It's all anybody ever talks about the second kids start hitting puberty, waiting for that elusive word or words to appear on their skin. She's just saying, it would be a whole lot more useful to have more of the public conversation directed towards _real_ problems. The ones that can actually be _solved._
> 
> Especially when you've got what's basically _gibberish_ scripted into your arm.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _prompt: a soulmate’s name/phrase appears in their native language and you should never trust google translate_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for [Eponine](http://thejonderettegirl.tumblr.com/), as part of [BFFTAP](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com/post/163803845155)
> 
> HUGE thanks to [Jazz](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com/) for her help with this prompt!!

 

  


 

As far as soulmates go, Clarke doesn't really have much of an opinion.

 

It's a useful enough concept, she supposes. Two people are made for each other (or whatever), and they somehow find their way to each other sooner or later. Sometimes it's three people, or four. Sometimes you don't have a soulmate, and that's cool too.

 

Whatever the case, it's a nice thought that there might be some real _purpose_ to the whole point of… well, of _people._

 

As far as _soulmate marks_ go? They're the fucking _worst._

 

It's all anybody ever talks about the second kids start hitting puberty, waiting for that elusive word or words to appear on their skin, checking over their friends' arms and legs daily and chattering on about what different names and phrases could mean for them and their soulmate(s). Sometimes kids get their marks as early as eleven or twelve. Sometimes kids put on graduation caps and gowns to collect their high school diplomas, and _still_ end up waiting a month or two more for their marks.

 

While it _is_ an interesting development, it's definitely _nowhere_ near as stressful as dealing with B.O., or hair appearing in places that didn't use to grow hair, or, you know, your _vagina spewing the bloody contents of your aching uterus every four weeks._

 

Whatever. She's just saying, it would be a whole lot more _useful_ to have more of the public conversation directed towards _those_ things. The _real_ problems. The ones that can actually be _solved._

 

Especially when you've got what's basically _gibberish_ scripted into the skin of your arm.

 

* * *

  

She's in the ninth grade before she lands on the idea that it might be another language.

 

"I mean, that's the only other explanation," Monty says, with a shrug of his slight shoulders.

 

Jasper peers across Monty's desk, squinting at her outstretched arm. "That, or your soulmate is a freaking _baby._ "

 

" _Not_ funny," Clarke mutters, tugging her sleeve back down over the two short words and the arched question mark lodged at the end of the incomprehensible phrase.

 

Monty elbows Jasper lightly. "Try Google Translate, maybe?"

 

So that's what she does the second she gets home, flinging her bag aside and flipping her computer open with what's probably a little _too_ much force.

 

She tries Spanish first, because, well, it _is_ the second most commonly used language in the country. The results turn up as a single word, "drooling", which gives her an uncomfortable flashback of Jasper's snorted suggestion about her soulmate's age. Before she can give herself time to think about whether the universe is even allowed to _do_ that — it's the _universe._ It can do whatever the fuck it wants, can't it? — she quickly hits the little arrow to open up more language options.

 

The next one she tries is Chinese, because they're the biggest and fastest growing population in the world (thanks, Mr. Pike from Social Studies). All she gets back is the same phrase repeated back to her in the same language, so she's guessing the Chinese don't have a translation for her soulmate mark either.

 

The third one she clicks on is Hawaiian. It's more of a shot in the dark. Also, who _wouldn't_ want to have a reason to go to Hawaii?

 

Unfortunately, all it says is "Dad". Which is, needless to say, not helpful at all.

 

She spends a few more minutes playing around with random languages, but neither the French, German, _nor_ the Italian have _any_ idea what the fuck her soulmate could possibly be saying. Spanish continues to be the only language that gives her the time of day, and even then, it's not much of a _good_ time.

 

(She also vaguely entertains the notion of Googling _'can karma be Spanish',_ but then she realises that even for the myriad of dumb questions Google gets on a regular basis, that one would probably earn her a hall-of-fame spot in the NSA offices. Oh, yeah. They're watching.)

 

Eventually, she closes the tab with a sigh, pushing away from her laptop resignedly.

 

"Did you translate it?" Monty asks the next day, as they're settling into their desks at homeroom.

 

She briefly notes Jasper's excited expression, mouth open and brows raised as he hovers at Monty's shoulder. The word "drooling" flashes up in her mind, and she cringes.  

 

"No," she says lightly, dropping into her seat. "Nothing came up. Sorry."

 

 

 

For the rest of high school and college, she doesn't bring it up again to anyone else.

 

* * *

  

She's on her last month of college when she sees the e-vite to Wells' wedding.

 

The first thing she does is FaceTime him, completely forgetting to spare a thought for her unwashed hair and her sauce-stained sweatshirt.

 

"Oh my God!" she practically yells at her phone when he picks up, already breathless with excitement.

 

"I was wondering how long it would take you to see it," Wells says wryly, his own wide grin betraying his own delight. "Has it really been three weeks since you last checked your email?"

 

"I'm buried in finals, Wells," she retorts. "I've been _busy._ Shit, I don't even care about Contextual Studies right now, I'm so fucking excited for you!"

 

Wells shakes his head, and it's pitch dark on her end, but she can see him blush, in the glare of the Australian sun streaming in through his window. "Thanks, Clarke. That really means a lot." He pauses, looking directly at his camera. "You— you don't think it's too soon, do you?"

 

She frowns, shifting her phone to her other hand. "What do you mean?"

 

Wells looks hesitant. "I— I don't know. I guess we're still pretty young. And we've got the marks and everything, but I—" He looks away, and then back at the screen. "Dad hasn't exactly _said_ so, but I feel like he'd rather we wait."

 

Clarke tilts her head. "Do you _want_ to wait?"

 

"No," he says, and it's full of eager sincerity. "I _love_ Luna. She loves me. This is it, Clarke. Whether we get married now, or in ten years, or twenty, this is it for both of us. The only life we want to live is the one where we're together. We don't want to wait to start that."

 

"Jesus," Clarke chuckles weakly, but her eyes are growing wet. "Well, in that case, fuck your dad. He's not the one getting married, you are." A helpless laugh escapes her. "Oh my _God._ You're getting _married!_ "

 

"I'm getting married!" Wells echoes joyously.

 

The wedding, Wells assures her, is going to be a small affair. The smaller scale is to accommodate for the shorter timeframe, and also because both Wells and Luna just aren't the type to make a big splash of their personal affairs.

 

"Most of our friends are already here, so it's really only family that has to fly in," he says. "It's going to be maybe forty people total, fifty tops. Open bar," he adds when he sees her open her mouth, nodding knowingly. "Of _course,_ Clarke. We're not _monsters._ "

 

"Might as well be," Clarke says darkly, recalling her initial horror when Wells had first told her about Luna's teetotalism.

 

She's only joking, though. (Mostly.)

 

"Don't forget to book your flight, okay?" Wells says, a hint of anxiety flashing in his expression. "I know you're busy and everything, and you're heading off to Europe for your grad trip soon, but it's been weeks since the invites went out, and the wedding's less than two months away, and Australia's a _really_ long way from where you're gonna be, and—"

 

"I won't forget, Wells," she says confidently, topping it off with a reassuring nod. "It's your _wedding._ I'm not gonna forget."

 

* * *

  

It's about two weeks to the wedding when she finally remembers to book a flight.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mutters, rapidly scrolling through her options. Most of them are way too expensive. Some of them are reasonably priced, but are slated to leave at abominable times. (Who the fuck schedules a twenty-hour flight for _four in the morning?_ You're _literally_ planning to arrive at your destination at fucking _midnight._ )

 

After twenty minutes of fevered searching, she gives up looking for direct flights and books herself on a layover route. The break between flights isn't that bad — about two hours, give or take. She can deal with two hours.

 

Plus, she's never been to the Philippines before. It should be fun.

 

* * *

 

The Philippines is _not_ fun.

 

Well, to be fair, it probably isn't the entire country's fault that _her flight got delayed a whole hour,_ and then the Manila airport had no free runways so they were left turning circles in the air for a full thirty minutes before finally landing, and by the time she'd managed to squeeze her way out of her window seat ( _brilliant_ choice, Clarke. _Wonderful_ ) and grab her bag from the overhead bin and fight through the throngs of restless passengers all impatient to get off the cabin they've all been trapped in for the last fifteen hours, she'd had what was basically no time left to get to a gate that was scheduled to close in _ten fucking minutes._

 

"Come on, come on, _come on,_ " she urges the elevator doors as they slide closed at a glacial pace. She really should've just found some stairs or an escalator somewhere, but the elevator was just closest, and she's clearly _the worst_ at making spur-of-the-moment decisions, so when the doors opened (to just one passenger already in the elevator), she'd hopped on without a second thought.

 

There's literally _two inches_ of space between the doors — _yes, MOVE_ — when they jerk to a stop, and, to her horror, start to pull right back open again.

 

_No!_

 

She barely spares a glance at the man standing outside the elevator doors, looking vaguely out of breath. 

 

" _Bababa ba?_ "

 

" _No habla español_ ," she snaps back automatically, her finger already hovering over the 'doors close' button. "Look, my gate closes in two minutes so either you're in or you're out, guy. What's it gonna be?"

 

There's a very, _very_ awkward pause.

 

The man outside the doors glances at her fellow elevator rider, who, she's just noticing now, is dressed in a smart black suit, is slightly balding, and _also_ has a hand on the buttons on the other side.

 

"Yes," the balding man says to the other with a small nod, his tone carefully dignified. "We're going down."

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

"Thanks," the other man says as he boards the elevator, cutting a stiff glance at her as he passes by. "Sorry."

 

"It's fine," she manages to get out.

 

The doors slide closed.

 

All she dares to chance is a quick glance at the balding man. He looks straight ahead, his expression perfectly neutral, both hands clasped in front of him. Definitely airport personnel.

 

A throat clears.

 

"Excuse me."

 

She turns, already drowning in embarrassment.

 

The elevator's newest passenger is carefully avoiding her gaze, one hand holding a boarding pass out to her. "Think you might have dropped this."

 

She scrambles to reclaim her plane ticket, her face flushing hotter when she accidentally notices how fucking _hot_ the guy is. Holy mother of _jawlines._ Could this _really_ be her—

 

"Thanks," she says, as lightly as she can manage, before turning back to face the front, where it's safe and free of mortification.  

 

To her _swiftly heightening_ discomfort, the man clears his throat again and leans a little closer.

 

"Your flight's been delayed, by the way," he says, his tone low and calm. "Gate's open another thirty minutes."

 

She blinks in surprise, whipping round to stare at him. "Seriously?"

 

He's still not looking at her, but he nods, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. "Seriously."

 

And then she recalls how she'd only spared a glance at the gate status coming out of her first flight, failing to note any other details.

 

"Ah." She tucks her boarding pass back in her passport, the skin of her neck burning with heat. "Thanks. Again."

 

The elevator grinds to a gentle halt, and, with a muted 'ding', the doors start to rumble open.

 

The balding man steps smartly out of the elevator, striding away without so much as a backward glance.

 

Jawline looks at her when she doesn't spring into action. "After you."

 

"Right. Thanks."

 

Jesus Christ, can she stop _thanking_ him already?

 

Once they're out of the elevator, the first thing she does is glance up at the giant screen displaying times and gate numbers. He's right. She's got plenty of time.

 

She turns, meaning to conjure up some halfway passable explanation for her behaviour.

 

"It's this way," he says before she can open her mouth, gesturing to the left.

 

 _Thanks,_ she starts to say.

 

"I know," she corrects quickly. "I just— uh, earlier, with the doors and everything—"

 

"It's fine," he says. There's a jacket draped over his left forearm, but he's moving, switching it over to his right. "At least now _this_ makes sense."

 

She stares at the inscription branded on the inside of his muscled arm, her own loopy handwriting printed right over the ridges of his veins, staring right back at her.

 

_No habla español._

 

"Right," she says, but her voice sounds weirdly distorted to her own ears. Like it's coming from a different room or something.

 

Another beat of awkward silence.

 

She clears her throat, ripping her gaze away from his arm. "Should I show you—"

 

"That would help," he says, a little tightly.

 

Once she's got the long sleeve of her henley rolled up to her elbow, she watches his face, waiting for his reaction. She doesn't quite know what to make of the way his eyebrows lift and then dip back down again, before knotting together tightly. There's a small tic that jumps in his jaw when he swallows, and she _really_ hopes she hasn't already ruined this before it's even began.

 

(Not that she assumes— well, it's a _relationship._ Her and her soulmate. Not a Relationship.)

 

He gives himself a small nod, like he's bracing himself for something, and looks up at her.

 

Suddenly, something snaps deep inside her, springing free — the strangest sensation of _release._ Fuck the marks. Fuck her Spanish karma. Fuck everything.

 

Her person is here. Actually _here,_ right in front of her.

 

Who knows what's going to happen? Right now, all she wants to know is _him._

 

She takes a deep breath, and holds her hand out. "I'm Clarke."

 

He looks surprised, but he takes her hand in his. "Bellamy."

 

She glances at the giant digital clock on the wall, large red numbers blaring out from the display. "So, I've got twenty-eight minutes. How would you feel about grabbing the world's quickest cup of coffee with me?"

 

He smiles then — and it's small, and it's slight, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that it's a _real smile._

 

"Sure."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bababa ba?_ = going down? (in ref to an elevator)
> 
>  
> 
> catch me on [tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


	18. don't give a marine a hickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **#18**
> 
>  
> 
> "Ma'am," the voice continues, serious and sober, "I'm calling today to inform you about your recent transgression against the Marine Corps, the Department of Defense, and the very Constitution of the United States."
> 
> Her breath stutters in her throat.
> 
> "Um," she squeaks out, "my _what_?"
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _prompt: don't give a marine a hickey, even if he's your husband_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from [allie](https://twitter.com/mythiccbellamy/status/938644739175333890) and bribery by [chloe](https://twitter.com/DATcASSian/status/938714621384503296)

 

  


Clarke flies through the automatic doors in a flurry of art tubes, throwing her purse and portfolio samples into the first basket she sees before striding off towards a random aisle. She's got about twenty minutes before _The Bachelorette_ starts, and after the long day she's had, she's not planning to miss a single second of it.

 

She powers through the frozen food section, throwing a few lasagnes and pizzas into her basket before hurrying towards the alcohol aisle. After the last two weeks they've had, the apartment is all out of wine, and she needs it for _The Bachelorette. Needs_ it.

 

She stops at a large yellow sign advertising a sale on frozen onion rings — two for one, but does she _really_ need two bags of frozen onion rings — and just as she puts her hand on the fridge door to open it, her phone goes off like a siren.

 

She jumps, shoving both hands into the basket to unearth her bag from the small mound of frozen food piled atop it. It takes another few seconds to wrangle her phone from the masses of half-finished gum packets and hair ties and pins in her purse, but she finally locates the clamouring device and brings it to her ear. "Hello?"

 

"Am I speaking to Ms. Clarke Griffin?"

 

She frowns, not expecting the grave sombreness of the voice that greets her. "Yes, this is she."

 

"Ms. Clarke Griffin," the voice persists, "legal spouse of Corporal Bellamy Blake of the U.S. Marine Corps?"

 

Her heart thuds to a standstill, all thoughts of onion rings dissolving from her brain.

 

No.

 

No, no, no.

 

It can't be. She just saw him _yesterday._ Less than twenty-four hours ago, she dropped him off at the airport and kissed him goodbye.

 

Less than twenty-four hours ago, her husband was in her arms. Warm. Safe. _Alive._

 

"Yes," she says, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm— yes."

 

She doesn't know what else to say. She's not sure she's even capable of saying anything else.

 

_Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, oh God._

 

"Ma'am," the voice continues, serious and sober, "I'm calling today to inform you about your recent transgression against the Marine Corps, the Department of Defense, and the very Constitution of the United States."

 

Her breath stutters in her throat.

 

"Um," she squeaks out, "my _what?_ "

 

" _Transgression_ , ma'am," the voice repeats, an undercurrent of irritation lacing its patient tone. "Ma'am, are you aware that the defacement of government property is a serious federal crime?"

 

She actually drops her basket, the plastic clattering flatly to the linoleum floor of the supermarket. "The _what_ of _what_?!"

 

"Penalties for this crime can go up to a maximum fine of up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, or ten years imprisonment, or even both," the voice continues, unbothered by her incredulous tone. "The American government does not take kindly to destruction of its property, ma'am, not at all."

 

Her jaw drops. "What are you _talking_ about? I didn't—" Cutting herself off in sheer frustration, she shakes her head violently, her blonde curls whipping about her face. "Look, what the hell is going on? Where's my husband? Is he okay?"

 

" _Okay_?!" There's a loud scoff on the other end of the line. "Ma'am, you've got a lotta nerve asking if he's _okay!_ Especially after that giant _contusion_ you left on Corporal Blake's person!"

 

Her brows knit into a sharp frown. "Contusion? What _contusion?!_ I have _never_ laid a hand on my husband!"

 

"You'd think after two years of marriage, you'd have the good sense not to leave it right out in the open where everyone can see," the voice continues over her protests. "Or _at least_ aim for somewhere _below_ the collar of our uniforms!"

 

All of a sudden, memories of the night before flood into her brain, the images of freckled skin and warm lips overwhelming her senses. The last night she and Bellamy shared together before he'd left for his second tour.

 

All the blood rushes out of her face, leaving her pale and dizzy for a brief moment before flooding right back in, her cheeks burning up in that way that always makes her look like she fell into a giant pan of bright red blush.

 

"Oh my God," she hisses, gripping the phone tight against her ear. "Are you talking about the _hickey_?"

 

A contemptuous sniff. "If _that's_ what you two are calling that big old ugly—"

 

There's a loud bang in the background, like a door being flung wide open. Another voice booms, muffled and inaudible but reassuringly and thrillingly familiar — and then all of a sudden, there's nothing on the line but the sounds of what she can only make out to be a scuffle, a barked-out _"Murphy!"_ and a high-pitched yelp, and then—

 

"Clarke?"

 

"Bellamy?" Even though she now knows full well that he'd been fine all along, the relief washes over her like a wave over the sand, cool and comforting. "Bellamy, _God._ It's you."

 

"Of course it's me, babe," he says, his voice turning soft and low in the way that always seems to melt her heart right in her chest. "Jesus, hang on— _fuck off,_ Murphy!" There's a last muted mumble in the background, and then the sound of a door closing. "Okay, he's gone now. What was he—"

 

" _Jesus Christ,_ Bell!" she explodes, no longer able to contain the fire of sheer indignation. "I thought you were _dead!_ I was _this close_ to losing it in the fucking _grocery store_!"

 

"What?" his voice roughens in concern. "What do you mean you— what the hell did that asshole say?!"

 

She throws her free hand up in exasperation. "He asked if I was me, if I was married to Corporal Bellamy Blake of the Marine Corps, yadda yadda yadda, and the whole time I was thinking something _terrible_ had happened, I was just thinking about you and I was this close to going out of my _mind,_ and _then_ he fucking accuses me of _destroying government property!_ "

 

Bellamy begins to laugh.

 

"It's _not funny_!" she half yells, but she can't quite suppress the grin already forming on her own face. "I thought you were _dead,_ and your dickwad friend was giving me shit for giving my own husband a _hickey_!"

 

Bellamy can't stop laughing. "Oh, shit," he manages when he catches his breath. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it was a shitty joke. Murphy and a couple other guys have been teasing me all morning, but I'm gonna—" He dissolves into another peal of laughter, and it's not fair how the sound makes her picture him crystal clear in her head, eyes crinkled, mouth stretched wide, broad chest all rumbly and warm with the evidence of his amusement.

 

"I'm gonna _kill_ him," she promises darkly, a wide smile on her own face, still flushed and warm with residual embarrassment. "It's Murphy, right? John Murphy? What's his middle name? Social security number?"

 

"Don't worry, baby, I'll get to him first," Bellamy chuckles. The last of his laughter dissolves into a small sigh. "Fuck, Clarke. I miss you so much already."

 

She exhales, leaning against the fridge door to cool her skin off. "I miss you too. When are you shipping out?"

 

"Three more days. Flight time isn't confirmed yet, but I'll let you know when I can. Should be set by the time we get to video chat tomorrow night."

 

"Any chance you could make it a private video chat?" she quips, smiling.

 

"My, my, Mrs. Blake," Bellamy says, and just from the tone of his voice she knows exactly which smile he's wearing — lopsided and charming, with a hint of teasing. "I'm not so sure you should be trusted alone with government property. Looking to make a repeat offense so soon?"

 

He probably genuinely means it as a joke, but even that flippant quip sends memories from their last two weeks together flickering through her brain again, igniting her senses and turning her insides to mush. The sight of Bellamy's tan skin, made even tanner from long hours of training and military exercises in the sun. The sounds he'd elicited from her with his hands and mouth. The _sensations_ he'd sparked in her when he'd—

 

She clears her throat, letting the pitch of her voice drop even lower. "Well, Corporal, it appears I might have something of a vandalism streak."

 

"Shit, babe." Bellamy sighs, the sound distinctly strained even through the phone connection. "All I want is just to be with you right now. Why am I all the way out here again?"

 

"Because you love me," she reminds him with a smile, "and you love our friends, and you love your country."

 

"Right, right," he says, exhaling heavily. "Priority number one. Protect my family."

 

Tears prick at her eyes, but her smile only grows wider. "Priority number one," she corrects insistently, "protect _yourself._ Stay safe, and _come home_ to your family."

 

"Yes, ma'am," he says, his voice soft and reassuring.

 

There's a long pause, the two of them hanging on just to hear each other in the faint buzz of the phone connection.

 

Finally, Bellamy clears his throat. "I gotta go," he says, his tone full of reluctant apology. "Get Murphy off whichever poor bastard he's torturing now."

 

She shakes her head, pushing off the fridge door. "Go. Text or call when you can."

 

"I will," he promises, and then adds, "Get yourself something _other_ than frozen pizza for dinner?"

 

"I did," she says, eyes flicking to the two boxes of frozen lasagne in her basket.

 

" _Or_ frozen lasagne." She can't see his face, but she can picture his raised brow, clear as day.

 

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll get an apple, or something."

 

"Good enough," he says, and then he pauses. She can't explain it, but something about the extra beat of silence just _tells_ her that he's smiling again, comforting and warm. "I love you."

 

Her heart grows about three sizes bigger in its ribbed cage.

 

"I love you," she answers, confident and firm.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com) where bellarke is the 15th most popular ship of the year of our lord 2017


End file.
